


hold my hand, lead me home

by scarletite



Series: the observation of binary stars [1]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, and carm is a mess, and then marry her, au in which Laura is an investigative reporter who's made enemies, now featuring a big gay european road trip, who is going to kill laura if she survives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-08 10:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11079882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletite/pseuds/scarletite
Summary: Laura’s always been good at her job. Investigative journalism is her bread and butter, and your girlfriend is about one more headline-stealing article away from being able to lay claim to a ‘detective’ title. She’s a one-woman army of truth, discovery and all things good. On the back of your girlfriend’s endless snooping, investigations and, subsequent exposés, the Silas Independent has made a name for itself.So, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that, as good at her job as she is, Laura’s made enemies.And it really, really shouldn’t come as a surprise that some of those enemies aren’t just powerful, but downright dangerous.





	1. inhale

Laura’s always been good at her job. Investigative journalism is her bread and butter, and your girlfriend is about one more headline-stealing article away from being able to lay claim to a ‘detective’ title. She’s a one-woman army of truth, discovery and all things good. On the back of your girlfriend’s endless snooping, investigations and, subsequent exposés, the Silas Independent has made a name for itself.

So, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that, as good at her job as she is, Laura’s made enemies.

And it really, really shouldn’t come as a surprise that some of those enemies aren’t just powerful, but downright _dangerous_.

You’re walking down Sixth Street, it’s half-past twelve. You’ve got a bag of Chinese takeout in one hand, and your phone in the other. There’s a few hours left in the day before your shift at the bar begins. It’s one of the rare days you’d woken up before noon, so you’d decided not to waste the opportunity. You don’t drop in on Laura often, but she’d subsist on cookies and enthusiasm if someone wasn’t bringing her food.

You’re halfway through a text when it happens. You’ve typed out the “ _almost there, sweet—”_ when an explosion knocks you off your feet. Your phone hits the ground with a clatter, the food with it. But your ears are ringing, you’ve scraped the hell out of your knees, and there’s screaming all around you.

It takes a moment for you to open your eyes, to process what the _fuck_ just happened. There’s shouting, somewhere behind you, but you can’t make out the words. You scramble for your phone, sightless.

In the distance, past the end of the street, around the corner, where you know your girlfriend’s tiny, crappy little office is—smoke, dust, _fire_ is rising in the air, thick and dark.

“No,” you whisper, soft, quiet, into the chaos on the street.

You’re moving before you can change your mind, fighting through the surging crowd. People push you back, frantic, almost trampling you. But you work in a bar, damn it, and you’ve fought people bigger and stronger than you before, without giving an inch. Chinese food forgotten, you struggle down the street.

Almost blind with panic, with the rapidly-spreading smoke, you fumble for your phone again. There’s a fine crack through the length of it, splicing the screen in two. It still works, though you have to squint to make out some of it.

You blindly hit the ‘call’ button, bringing it up to your ear.

“Come on, cupcake,” you hiss, shouldering roughly through a pair of broad men. There’s people stampeding through the streets, between cars, any pretense of traffic laws forgotten. “Pick up, Laura. C’mon.”

_“Hi, this is Laura. I can’t answer my phone right now, but—”_

“Damn it!”

You hang up, then dial again; the smoke is growing thicker, now, and you’re less than a minute from the Silas Independent’s offices. It rings for a long moment, and your heart is in your throat.

_“Hi, this is Laura. I can’t—”_

“Fuck!”

At that moment, you round the corner, onto Laura’s street.

It’s…destroyed.

The smoke and the fumes are burning your nose, thick, choking. But you sprint, faster now, fueled not just by panic but by fear, raw, unadulterated.

A police car drives by, slow, through the throng of people. Not everybody is running, here, there’s so many bystanders staring at the same sight: the building, smoking and ruined, fire licking at its shell. It’s a familiar building, old, two floors crumbled to one-and-a-half _—“an old sewing factory,”_ Laura had crowed, the day she’d taken you to her job for the first time, _“it’s got history in this town.”_

There’s screaming, now, louder.

As you push up the street, you take in the sight—dozens of faces, some bloodied, blackened, some unconscious or propped up by others. You don’t recognize any of them, not at first sight. Your brain is numb, one consuming thought in mind: _Laura_.

“What the fuck,” you hiss, breath gasping, unsteady, feeling for all the world like you’re going to slip away. “No, no, no.”

You mash the ‘dial’ button on your phone again, hope and fear dueling like living things in your chest.

“Come on, Laura,” you whisper, stepping around what feels like warzone—there’s a man prone on the footpath, and there’s two people crouched over him, hands wet with his blood. “Come on, _please_.”

It rings once, twice, three times—too long.

_“Hi, this is Laura. I can’t come to—”_

You hang up, dial again.

And it rings, and rings, and rings…

_“Hi, this is—”_

No matter how many times you call, it rings and rings on.

Laura isn’t picking up.

(You struggle to breathe, fight the fear of what that could _mean_.)

There’s a police officer setting up barricades when you finally get to Laura’s office, and there’s already a half-dozen uniformed men standing around—some are standing guard, keeping people out, others are helping tend to wounded or calming panicked people.

In the distance, a fire engine and two ambulances chug slowly down the street, two more police cars escorting it closer.

“Hey!” you shout to the closest officer, one hand coiled tight around your phone (so tight, you think you can feel the shards from the crack dig into your palm). “I—my girlfriend, she’s—she’s supposed to be inside. She works here, she—”

The officer, the tallest woman you’ve ever seen, with ginger hair, turns to you. Her expression is drawn taught, the mask of a professional, but her face is ashen and she’s staring at you with wide eyes. “Ma’am, calm down,” the officer says, taking a tentative step towards you. “It’s okay, just breathe.”

You want to shout at her, to swear, but you’re not getting enough air in your lungs and—hello, hyperventilation.

“In, out,” the ginger coaches, and you want to _punch her_. “Just breathe, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

She doesn’t know that, she can’t know that—the smoldering, buckling building looms over her shoulder, menacing, and each breath you take is hard, fast.

“My—I—” you inhale, in, out; you need to calm down, you think, your older sister’s words coming back to you ( _“keeping your head in a crisis, darling, that’s the difference between the strong and the weak”)._ “Laura. Laura Hollis, my girlfriend, she…she works here, she’s the editor.”

The police officer’s face creases, something like sympathy, something that makes you sick. “You’re Carmilla?”

Your breath almost leaves you again. “You know Laura? Is she here? Is she—did she get out safe?”

“No, I—I haven’t seen her,” the officer shakes her head. “But I know Laura, she’s…my name’s Danny. She’s interviewed me about my cases a few times, we got coffee, she’s a really sweet girl. I, I’m sorry, she—”

The way she says it, it makes you sick; sounds too much like a funeral dirge, like some shitty _fucking_ condolences. You throw up a hand, stop her. “Has anyone come out? Anyone who works inside?”

Danny shakes her head again. “Nobody yet, sorry. It’s…kind of a mess.”

You look over her shoulder. There’s a brigade of firefighters already, hoses in hand, trying to put out the flames—there isn’t many, thankfully, because all these old buildings are mostly brick, it’s just flooring and wooden joists that smolder.

“Damn it,” you hiss. “Laura…”

You look down at your phone again, hammer the ‘dial’ button.

You can feel Danny watching you, her eyes on the picture of Laura you’d chosen as her contact photo—it’s one of the two of you, taken by Silas’ photographer, LaFontaine, you’re cuddled together in the grass, Laura’s back to your front, your arms around her, and she’s laughing brightly.

_“Hi, this is Laura. I can’t—”_

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

Danny doesn’t back up a step in the face of your sudden fury, instead she advances. Her hands are large, warm, calloused on your bare arms. “Hey, hey, it’ll be okay. Don’t panic. We don’t know anything yet!”

“Don’t!” You pull yourself from her grasp, shaking, tears streaking your cheeks. “Don’t touch me!”

The ginger giant backs off slightly, and you’re treated to the sight of one of the many emergency services approach you. There’s a big guy, broad shoulders and dumb look on his face, wearing a paramedic’s jacket.

“Hey, D-Bear,” the guys voice is bright, warm, and none of the things that you feel. “Is everything okay over here?”

Danny glances over. “Shock, I think…” she hesitates, glancing at you. “Her girlfriend might have been inside.”

Laura might have been inside, you think to yourself, digging your fingernails sharply into your palms. She might have been inside, when it happened.

“What happened? Why here? What did this?”

And you _know_ , you know it’s Laura and her damn investigations and her messing with the _wrong_ kinds of people, because you warned her—you’ve had dozens of fights over it, because not everybody will take her actions kindly, will take them lying _down_.

Laura’s been screwing around with major players—the board of the University of Silas is corrupt, you know this because she won’t shut up about it, and she’s linked it to the Corvae Corporation, who she’s discovered are kicking-puppies-spitting-on-babies kind of evil.

The story isn’t supposed to leak until next week, but you’ve seen the files and heard her talk about it. You know these people are _bad_. You know, because it’s the same kind of bad as your mother, as the business you’ve long distanced yourself from.

“We can’t say,” Danny says, at the same time the paramedic says, “looks like a bomb or something went off.”

A bomb, you think, oddly calm.

Danny smacks the paramedic hard.

“Ow, D-Bear! Not cool!”

“Shut up, Kirsch! God, stop being an idiot!”

Your legs are shaking, sensation fleeing—and you feel like a dramatic maiden, about to collapse in the street, as the plumes of smoke billow over Kirsch’s shoulder lengthen, dark miasma over you all.

“Whoa, whoa! Careful!” Kirsch is at your side in an instant, sitting you gently on the ground, kneeling at your side. “Don’t pass out, okay! It’s alright, everything’ll be fine, you’ll see. Me and D-Bear will take care of you, and they’ll find your girlfriend, I’m sure she’s fine!”

Mother would be so disappointed in you, you think absently—she always wanted you perfect, emotionless, unaffected. You’d tried for so long, but all your apathy, your carefully crafted walls, goes flying out the window when Laura’s involved.

You hate how weak Laura makes you, but you hate what your life feels like without her even more.

“Laura…” you whisper to the night air, biting your lip hard, until you taste blood in your mouth. You reach up, hands coiling in your hair, tugging. “You stupid, naïve, _child_. I _told_ you not to get involved with all of this. I _told_ you it’d get you killed. Damn it!”

At your side, Kirsch gently grasps your hands, extracting the vice-grip in your hair. “She’ll be fine. I’m sure your girl is tough.”

You swallow thickly. “She is…she’s the strongest person I know.”

He nudges your shoulder slightly, smiling, bright and open and honest—you want to hate him, to ignore him, but he’s so sincere it’s sickening. “There you go, then,” he beams. “She’ll be fine. She has to be tough, to handle a lady like you.”

For the first time, you laugh. “Yeah, tough, that’s her,” you cackle, and maybe it’s a little hysterical, a little weepy, but it just makes you laugh harder, “she’s five-two, but she’s the fiercest spitfire you’ll ever meet.”

His eyes are warm, and he takes your hands in his—they’re large, warm, and strangely soft. He sits in front of you, head tilted. “How’d you meet her?”

You know a distracting technique when you see one, but you sink into the memories for a moment, allow yourself a reprieve. “She was this tiny, innocent, driven little thing—stumbled into my bar with a notebook and a video camera. She was on a mission.”

“She’s a journalist?”

You gesture to the smoking building behind you, swallow past the lump in your throat. “Silas Independent’s finest. Most dedicated, curious, stubborn girl you’ll ever meet,” you laugh again, a flash of teeth, “I hated her instantly.”

His eyebrows raise. “How’d she land a girl like you?” he asks, smiling, and it’s significantly less creepy when his eyes don’t rake up and down your body, like most men would. He sounds genuinely curious.

“She was asking all these questions about my mother, she is—was—a big name in the business world. Laura was investigating her, she—she found out about some of the things my mother had done, dirty deals, dirty money, that sort of thing,” you don’t know why you’re telling him this, maybe it’s his puppy eyes, maybe it’s his smile, but you feel like you can trust him with this. “She wouldn’t stop bugging me, wouldn’t leave it alone. She stalked me for, like, a month. Until I finally gave in, and said she’d better ask me to dinner first. We’ve been dating ever since. Two years, now.”

Kirsch whistles, grins. “Persistent girl.”

“Don’t I know it,” you laugh, wry, even as your heart coils uncomfortably in your chest. “She’s…the best part of my life. Every day I have her, I feel like…like maybe this world isn’t as dreary and dark as my mother made it seem, like there are good things, _innocent_ things left—” like her, you think.

“You’ve got it bad,” he breathes.

“She’s the love of my life,” you answer. “I want to marry that girl.”

He flashes a smile. “Invite me to the wedding?”

“If—when we find her,” you reply, soft, “I’ll invite everyone in this damn street.”

For a moment, you imagine Laura—dressed in white, a ring on her finger, a smile on her face. And it feels like, like—it feels _right_. You’ve come to love her irrefutably, irrevocably, in the two years you’ve known her, since she stampeded into your life, all stalker-y and refusing to leave you “the fuck alone”.

Now, you don’t know what your life would be like without her.

You’re scared to even think about it.

(Laura is your everything—without her, you can’t imagine life.)

“I consider that a promise,” Kirsch replies effortlessly. “This is my RSVP. Me and D-Bear will be there. When we find her, we’re gonna watch you walk down the aisle.”

Danny, standing tall above you both, smiles; she’s kind, warm, and you hate her, you hate the blossom of hope in your chest. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I—” you don’t know what to say, they’re strangers, really, and thanks has always been something you’ve had trouble giving. But they’ve spent this time reassuring you, settling you, even when there’s people with greater injuries all around you. “Laura will be happy. She’s always wanted a big wedding.”

You struggle to your feet, legs still wobbly, unsteady. Kirsch helps you, hands wrapped in yours. He levers you to your feet, then lets go.

The three of you stand there, just for a moment, looking towards the wreckage of Laura’s office building. The firefighters are still frantically battling the blaze, struggling to turn the flames to embers. There’s a police cordon, wider, now. More officers have arrived, in heavy armor and with heavy weaponry—a task force, you think.

Your heart is still going crazy, your anxiety and fear warring in your chest, but you’re steadier, running less on adrenaline now. You’re still scared to hell, you want to shout and scream, but all that comes from you is an unsteady whine.

“Kirsch,” Danny breaks the silence, patting his arm. “You should go. I’ll look after her.”

He glances at you. “Alright, D-Bear,” he nods, then focuses on you for a moment. “Keep your head up, y’know? Happy thoughts. She’ll be fine. She’ll walk down the aisle at your wedding.”

You nod, swiping the embarrassing wetness from your eyes—Carmilla Karnstein isn’t soft, isn’t weak, she _doesn’t_ cry (your mother never let you cry, it was unbecoming). “Yeah, go. I’m fine.”

“Alright, hotstuff,” he grins at you, “call if you need anything, alright?”

Kirsch rushes off to tend to some more of the wounded, the dozen people who are wounded—bystanders, you realize, nobody from the building has surfaced yet. Eight people work at the Silas Independent, it’s a small, tightly knit group. But it’s lunch time, and not everybody works today; some will have made it out.

You go through all the people you know, the people you care about. Laura aside, how many were working today? LaFontaine is away, working on a project in the next town over, with J.P. Perry’s supposed to be working, you think, but she normally runs coffee and lunch orders, hopefully she made it out. Then there’s Betty and Sarah Jane, and you don’t know their schedules, but you think they’re the last of who should be working right now.

You hate the Silas Independent staff, they’re all dreamers and idealists and completely unrealistic people. They always make fun of you and Laura. They don’t deserve this.

The ginger giant looks at you, at the choked sound you make. “It’ll be okay,” she whispers, glancing between you and the officers working beyond the rest of the cordon.

There’s a crowd growing around the scene, now that the initial danger has passed. There’s news vans, spectators, and too many people. It’s suffocating. You want nothing more than to vault the barricade, to dig through the rubble and the cinders with your hands, to find your girlfriend, your—as much as you hate to admit it, your _friends_.

Your fists curl, furious, despairing—nobody hurts your friends, your _family_.

When you find out who did this, you promise yourself, you’re going to introduce them to the parts of you that you’d almost forgotten—the one shut behind closed doors and Lilita Morgan’s control, buried.

“Don’t,” you say, words angry, tense. “I don’t need you looking at me like that, with pity, I—”

_“I stay out too late, got nothing in my brain,  
That's what people say, that's what people say—”_

You’d know that tone by heart, to the end of days. The ringtone you hate-but-love (chosen by Laura, and you’re not allowed to change it _or else)_. It’s your phone, it’s ringing.

It’s Laura.

“Laura!” you shout, frantic, blindly mashing ‘accept’. “Laura, is that you!”

There’s a strange, wheezing cough along the line. _“It’s me, Carm—I—I’m here.”_

Your breath rushes out of you, all the fear and the worry (she could have _died_ , you’d thought—a small, secret part of you—that she _had_ ) rushing out, leaving you breathless. “Cupcake,” you say, calmer than you feel, despite the shake of your voice. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Danny is waving frantically at some of the firefighters. “We’ve got a call from a survivor!”

You ignore her, you ignore the chaos, the flashing lights, the sirens.

Laura, it’s her. She’s alive.

 _“I…I don’t know, Carm, I—”_ there’s a cracking, groaning sound in the background, like the entire building is shifting, and there’s something strange in Laura’s voice. _“It’s dark…I was at my desk, I think…I don’t know.”_

“Are you okay?” you ask again, and then when she doesn’t immediately reply—there’s a slight, wheezing, hissing noise, like she’s breathing through her teeth—you press. “Laura? Talk to me!”

 _“I’m sorry, Carm. I—”_ there’s another groaning noise, and you hear her hiss this time, hear her choke, pained. _“I love you.”_

“Laura, Laura, no,” you _know_ she isn’t okay, there’s no way she is; you look at the twisted, ruined, wreck of her office, your heart sunk to your feet. The fire’s been extinguished, and there’s firefighters combing the wreckage, pulling back blocks and beams. “Laura, what’s going on? Where are you hurt?”

There’s a moment, a moment where you hear nothing but her struggling breathing, that you feel like your world is going to be brought to nothing but ruins. You imagine a thousand possibilities in your head, all more gruesome than the last.

 _“There’s something—on my chest, I can’t—”_ her words are strained, and you’re suddenly aware of how breathless she is. _“It won’t…move.”_

“Shit, shit, shit,” you meet eyes with Danny, and with the firefighter who’s joined you both. There’s horror written on their faces, and you’re sure it matches with your own. “Laura, just hold on, baby. We’ll find you, okay? Just stay with me! Stay on the line, cupcake!”

You hear Laura make a high, whining sound. There’s a strange sound in the background, a crumbling, shuddering sound that makes you sick to your stomach. _“Carm—I…”_

There’s a cluster of movement around you, and you’re suddenly aware of the group surrounding you. Danny’s leaning in close to you, straining to hear the call. There’s a half-dozen firefighters and police officers around you, trading glances.

“Laura, where are you?” you ask, fist clenching in the fabric of your pants. “Come on, sunshine. Give me something, anything.”

 _“It’s dark—there’s all these bricks, and—”_ her words are muffled, strained; the phone isn’t directly at her mouth, you realize, there’s too much echo, distance, too much peripheral noise. _“It’s on top of me—a, a beam, I think? I can’t move…”_

“A beam?” you breathe, shaking your head.

A firefighter takes the phone from you, suddenly. “What’s on your chest? Is it a beam, or a joist?”

You snarl, reaching out to snatch it back from him, fury blinding you. “Give it back!” you shout, scrambling after him as he steps back, until Danny’s locked around your back, holding your arms at your side. “Laura! Damn it, Clifford, let me _go_! Give me back my fucking phone!”

“Shit, stop it!” Danny struggles to hold you, muscled arms tight around your waist. “He needs to know, okay? Theo needs to know, so he can find her!”

You can’t hear the conversation, but the firefighter is talking rapidly over the phone, pressing your girlfriend for details. “Your office? Was it on the first floor?”

Frantic, you claw at Danny’s arms. She hisses, pained, but only holds you tighter. Technically, it’s assault on an officer, you think—but you don’t give a damn, you’d kill to keep Laura safe, if you had to. “She works on the second floor,” you snarl, “at the back of the building.”

The firefighter, you think Danny said his name was Theo, frowns at you. He’s holding your phone close to his ear, listening to whatever your girlfriend is saying over the line. “Okay, Laura—just hold on, alright, we’ll find you. It’ll be alright.”

You’re suddenly free, and you stumble unexpectedly out of Danny’s arms, catching the phone as it’s shoved back into your hands.

“Keep her on the line, keep her calm,” Theo instructs, waving the other firefighters over; the protective face-shield he’d flipped up is pulled down, the mask refitted to his face, so when he continues to speak it comes out muffled. “We’re going to find her.”

He leaves, then, in a huddle of oxygen-tank carrying men. They’re headed deep into the wreckage, through the sopping, soiled, twisted mess of the Independent’s offices.

_“Carm?”_

You shake your head, shake away everything but Laura—who is alive, but trapped, pinned, _hurt_. “I’m here, sweetness,” you reply, voice soft, in the way only Laura gets to hear. “It’s okay.”

Laura’s breath is deep, rattling. _“I love you,”_ she sighs, distant, far away. _“You know—you know, right?”_

“I know,” the words are thick, catch in your throat. “And I love you too, cupcake.”

There’s a light, strained laugh. _“Save the ‘I-told-you-so’s, okay?”_

And, because your relationship is built solidly on scathing remarks, play fights and (excellent) make-up sex, you know exactly what to say to that: “We need to talk about your job dedication,” you reply, dry, humorless, “this is definitely going above and beyond the call of duty, Hollis.”

 _“I’m good at my job,”_ she replies, and her laugh is almost a sob.

“Too good for my heart to take, creampuff,” you shake your head, looking up to the sky—it’s bright blue, cheery, no clouds in sight, and you hate it because it feels like there should be darkness, a downpour. “We need to have a serious talk about workplace security, okay?”

She wheezes in a breath. _“Dad’s going…to kill me.”_

“Not if I kill you first, sweet thing,” you reply—because Papa Hollis is protective to the point of absurd, but you’d fight to death for the right to throttle Laura first (you _told_ her this would happen, told her she was making unnecessary enemies), because you love her but she’s a _moron_. “So, you hold on, okay? I’ve got first dibs.”

 _“Noted,”_ she rasps, then pauses—the length is so long, you almost think she’s hung up, but her breathing is still close, strained, but there. _“Carm…is anybody else…?”_

Laura is too good for this world.

You hate her stupid, kind, caring heart.

Of course, she’d be worried about her (still very missing) friends, but Laura wouldn’t be Laura without the support of the rest of the Scooby gang. Some of them, like LaF and Perry, have been Laura’s friends since University, and you know she loves them like family.

“Don’t worry about them,” you say, instead of what wants to come out—you want to yell at her, tell her that _she’s_ lucky to be alive, don’t work yourself up about anyone else. “Just breathe, sweetie. Stay with me.”

But Laura’s never been anything but stubborn; it’s what attracted you to her. _“Carm—Perry, did she—she was getting…coffee, I think—”_

An unknown thread of tension releases in your chest. So, Raggedy Anne is okay, hopefully. Out on a coffee run, because of course she was, she does all the work of an intern despite being an advice columnist.

“I’m sure she’s fine, and LaF and J.P.,” you deliberately don’t mention any other names. “Everybody’ll be okay, cupcake, trust me. It’d take more than this to put any of them down, they’re too stubborn for that.”

Laura takes a deep, shaky breath. _“Good…that’s…good.”_

“When you’re out, we’re having a serious talk about vacation time,” Laura’s always refused to take it unless forced, she’s so dedicated to her work (and she’s always working, _“there’s always a story to find, Carm!”_ ) that eighteen-hour workdays aren’t uncommon. “I’m thinking you, me, a little beach in Paris…bikinis, mimosas, the works.”

 _“That…sounds nice,”_ Laura’s voice is weak, almost dreamy. _“I like beaches.”_

“Everybody likes beaches, sundance.”

 _“I like you_ ,” Laura sighs. _“A lot.”_

“And I like you too, for some strange reason. Even though you’re a stubborn, short-sighted, workaholic,” the words are familiar, playful, “with serious boundary issues.”

 _“So romantic,”_ Laura laughs, but it comes out choked, coughed, a little wet. _“You really know…how to make a girl feel special.”_

“I want to marry you one day, cupcake,” you whisper, and you can feel mascara on your face, caking your cheeks like a panda—you’d never needed waterproof before, you’re too badass to cry. But the words feel necessary, urgent, you need her to _know_ , to understand, just in case. “So, you hold on, okay? Don’t you dare die, Hollis. I want to see you walk down the aisle one day.”

 _“Is that—”_ Laura takes another gasping, breathy laugh, _“your proposal?”_

You laugh too, shaky, broken. “If— _when_ you get out of this, I’m marrying the hell out of you, Hollis. I’ll carry you to city hall tonight, we’ll elope. Who needs the dress and the vows and all that stupid, complicated stuff. I just want you. I just…just come back to me, baby.”

 _“I…want to marry you,_ ” Laura croaks back. _“I want to see—you in a dress—my dad, our—friends and…Carm, I…”_

You shake your head, even though she can’t see it. Her words are getting weaker, breathier. “Save your breath, sunshine. Don’t talk, okay? Just breathe. Focus on my voice, okay? I’m here.”

Her breathing comes over the line, struggling, not as deep as she needs; the beam pressing on her chest must be compressing her tighter and tighter, you realize with alarming calm, a slow suffocation. _“Okay.”_

Your eyes travel back to the wreckage, to the firefighters sifting through it. It’s a mess, honestly, you can’t make heads or tails of the once familiar building. All the bricks, beams and wood looks the same as the rest; half-burned, crumbled and ruined. You look at the ruins they’re picking through, at their feet, and think that _somewhere_ there is Laura—buried beneath them, slowly suffering while they take their time.

“I should probably tell you,” you warn, “that I may or may not have invited the whole street to our wedding.”

Laura lets out a quiet huff, the ghost of a laugh.

“I’d always dreamed of a small, private ceremony, y’know. But, I guess you get your wish instead, cupcake,” you shake your head, bite at your lip for a moment; your life has been one of compromises, but you don’t regret any of them when it comes to Laura. “Mattie will be thrilled, I’m sure. She’s always wanted to mastermind a wedding. It’ll make her year.”

Your sister hadn’t been _thrilled_ when you’d first introduced her to Laura. But, then again, most people’s girlfriends weren’t singlehandedly responsible for the downfall-slash-imprisonment of their mother. Mattie had threatened to wear her entrails like jewelry within five minutes of meeting her—so, it’d gone about as well as you’d expected it.

In the year since they’ve been introduced, with Mattie breezing in and out of town as her career takes her (taking over your mother’s more legitimate business interests), she’s been exposed to more Laura. You can proudly say she’s Stockholm-Syndrome’d your snarky sister.

The last time you’d spoken with Mattie, after a dinner between the three of you at a quiet restaurant and an evening of wine on your apartment fire escape, she’d expressed her reluctant approval. _(“She’s a sweet, stubborn, driven girl, darling. And despite my initial reservations, I…think she’s good for you. You did well.”)_

Since then, you’ll admit that the idea has taken you—joining your new family with your old one, make Laura a Karnstein (although she’d probably want to keep her name, or get a hyphen—she’s a _“strong, independent, twenty-first century woman, Carm!”_ ).

You haven’t bought a ring or anything yet, but…there is one, hidden in your apartment—the one your mother had once called home, that you’d taken over. It’s more expensive than anything you’ve ever held, your mother’s, an ‘heirloom’. You’d never thought to give it to her, anything spoiled and ruined by your mother, but…

Suddenly, you wish you had the ring, had something tangible to give her, to make the promises into a reality. Your words aren’t false. You’d marry her here, in the street, if you could.

 _“No doves,”_ Laura whispers, hoarse, _“animal…cruelty.”_

You shake your head, even though she can’t see you. “You know Mattie, she’s all about the dramatics. We’ll be lucky to barter her down to only a dozen.”

“Laura?”

There’s breathing still, weak, barley-there.

“…Laura?”

There’s no reply, not even a huff of acknowledgement.

“Damn it,” your fingers curl so tight over your phone, trembling, and you think that you may just crack it irretrievably. “Laura, are you okay? Talk to me! Please…”

You’d almost forgotten about Danny, standing at your side like a shadow. She’s watching you, expression drawn, tight. It’s the practiced, parade-rest expression, the kind you wear at a funeral and _godshitfuck_.

“Laura? Laura, answer me!” you shout, and you’re beginning to attract attention—there’s people around you, the crowd that you’ve suddenly realized has gathered, a mix of news reporters and bystanders, watching you curiously, some with cameras. “Damn it, Hollis!”

There’s somebody talking to you, at you, but you don’t hear the words. You think there’s something like a microphone being shoved at you, at Danny, but you don’t notice. Everything is a dull roar, the only focus you have is on Laura, the barely-there sound of her breathing.

“Come on,” Danny pulls you away from the barricade, away from the mounting chaos of the spectators. She pushes you towards the back of an ambulance, the same one Kirsch had come from, and sits you gently on the lip of it.

The doors are open, but there’s nobody inside—sometime in everything, they’ve collected most of the injured and shipped them off, or treated those who can walk. There’s just you, Danny, and the silence across the line.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” you hiss, looking up at Danny, your heart running a million miles a minute—you’re sure you’re pale, you feel faint, woozy, detached from your own body. “She isn’t answering. Why isn’t she answering?”

You can’t spot them through the rubble, the half-caved roof and the half-fallen second floor, but you can hear the shouts of the firefighters inside. There’s all sorts of dust billowing in the air, smoke still streaming from the gaping mouth of the building, hot and dark like dragon’s smog. There’s a distinct sound, shifting, grating, like rubble being thrown.

Strangely, you feel like you shouldn’t be able to hear it, like it’s too far, but—

You realize, then, that the phone’s still pressed to your ear. Even if Laura’s gone quiet, there’s still a connection, enough to hear…

“They’re getting closer,” you breathe, eyes wide, staring up at Danny. “I can hear them! Laura, baby, do you hear that! They’re coming, just—just hold on!”

Danny’s gone from your side in an instant, long legs throwing her through the huddle of officers and emergency professionals. She shoulders her way roughly through them, arm pressed to her face, and disappears through the smoke. There’s reserve firefighters, paramedics, shouting after her, but she doesn’t stop.

Carmilla sits numbly, listens to the sounds of shifting and scraping over the line—it’s muffled, slightly distant, but it’s there. Laura’s breathing, she thinks numbly, isn’t.

“Laura, come on. You stupid, stubborn girl,” Carmilla’s head drops back against the wall of the ambulance, throat thick. “Don’t you dare give up on me now, Hollis. I…I can’t live my life without you. I love you. I want to marry you. I want to see you walk down the aisle, I want us to buy a house, I want to get a—a fucking _dog_ and raise a fucking _kid_ , and…and you can’t die on me now. Not now, when I’m finally ready.”

You don’t give a shit about tears, not anymore. Not when your girlfriend, your _fiancée_ , your future _wife_ , is quiet. Not when her life is on the line, but she’s not responding.

“I hated you when we first met, you know. This prissy, pretty little journalist, sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. The moment you came into the bar, thinking you were _so_ convincing, trying to talk about my mother. I wanted to hit you, so, so badly—” you break off, a thick, slightly hysterical laugh coming from you. “The old me would have, you know. Before I ran away, got free, Mother probably would have had me _deal with_ you. But no, I had to reform, repent, and that meant no grievous bodily harm.”

There’s a groaning, shuddering sound—not from Laura, though, it’s the sound of a building shifting, settling. There’s voices, too, muffled and too far to understand, but there.

“I thought the best way to keep you away was to ignore you. Guess how far that got me, right?” you bite your lip, tighten one hand around the hem of your jacket. “God, you were so annoying, practically stalking me around town. I remember thinking, I’d have been creeped out if you weren’t so damn _cute._ So persistent. When you finally cornered me, and I made you take me to dinner, I…I realized I didn’t hate you at all. You were like a leech, attached to me, and I…I _enjoyed_ your company.”

A low, angry laugh came from you—fury warring with despair. “And I should have known, known that this job was going to be the death of you. You’re so stubborn, so idealistic, so caught up with doing the _right thing_ ,” you grit your teeth. “Why can’t you just worry about yourself, why couldn’t you just, for once in your life, be _careful!”_

You wish Mattie were here, she’d know what to do.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, low, thick, “I know you hate the over-protective girlfriend crap. But…I just wish you’d take care of yourself, just for _once_ , put yourself first. Put _us_ first.”

_(“If I gave up, if I let them chase me away—I wouldn’t be me, Carm.” “I know.”)_

You’ve had the argument a million times, and it never has a satisfying conclusion. It’s been the cause of late-night fights, days spent at friend’s houses, and too much distance between you at times. But you always come back together, pulled to her, like a wave pulled to the shore, ebbing and flowing.

“God, I need you. I can’t live without you,” the words break, crumble from your lips, “don’t make me, Laura.”

And then there’s movement, so loud, you have to drag the phone away from your ear with a wince. It’s like an earthquake, a rumbling, shuddering noise. They’re digging, you realize, pulling away whatever debris and rubble is trapping Laura.

 _“Shit! It’s her! Everybody, help me!”_ a voice shouts, Theo’s, maybe. _“We need to move this joist, it’s crushing her! Careful, it’ll be heavy!”_

Your heart is racing so loudly, you think it’s going to explode.

You listen, frozen.

There’s grunting, swearing, the crack and strain of debris underfoot. They’re moving it, whatever’s pinned Laura, they’ve lifted it off her. You realize she’s free, just as the drop it, the thud so loud you hear it echo, not just from your phone.

_“Medic! We’ve got her!”_

There’s a scuffle of movement, a cacophony of voices. There’s another sound, a skittering, and the voices grow a little quieter, a little further away; they dropped the phone, you process.

But they’ve got her, your breath hitches, they’ve _got_ her.

_“Non-responsive—”_

_“—pulse not—”_

_“—no oxygen, her ribs—”_

“Fuck, fuck! Damn it, Laura!” you’re shouting over the line, over the clashing voices, trying to will yourself to be heard, for your girlfriend to be okay. “No!”

You’ve never believed in a higher power, in prayer, but you recognize the sound of the phone being picked up. _“We found her,”_ it’s Danny’s voice, you realize, _“we found her!”_

You practically collapse, shaking, shuddering—you’ll deny the sob, later, but for now you can’t stifle it. “Is she okay?” you want to run to her, to find her, to hold her and never let go, but your legs aren’t functioning anymore, and all the adrenaline that’s kept you together is fleeing you abruptly, leaving you numb and non-functional.

There’s the briefest moment of hesitation, jumbled by the frantic voices in the background.

 _“1, 2, 3, 4—”_ you hear. _“Come on!”_

 _“It’s too early to say,”_ Danny’s voice is low, cautious, juxtaposed by all that’s going on in the background—CPR, you realize numbly, or something like that; what you do when someone’s heart has stopped, when there’s no pulse, no oxygen. _“Just—just wait, I—”_

You hiss, agitated, infuriated, shattered apart to the very core. “She better _live_ ,” the words are a threat, vicious, and you taste the poison as you spit them, “after all of this, I can’t, I _refuse—”_

 _“Look, there’s nothing I can do,”_ the words aren’t angry, but they’re firm. _“Just, just wait a second. They’re doing what they can.”_

God, you hate her. “Don’t—don’t tell me to relax, or calm down, or any of that shit! Just tell me my girlfriend is going to _live_ , okay, Clifford? All I want is for her to be _safe_.”

There’s silence on the line, and if it weren’t for the sounds in the background, you’d have thought that Danny hung up on you. “I…I’m sorry…”

“Okay, no,” you struggle up to your feet, to stand. You regret wearing boots, because your footing is wobbly at best. “No, don’t you—don’t say it like that, like—” like she’s _gone_.

You throw your phone, scream, wordless.

Before anybody can do anything, can stop you, you’re running. You’re like a baby deer, on new legs. But you’ve always been fast, slippery, like Mother demanded. Like Danny, you shove through the crowd, pushing your way into the maw of hell, the smog rising around you.

It’s dark, hard to see, even after the fire’s been extinguished. The ground is uneven, the bright wood floors and warm rugs from before blown away, leaving a scorched crater of destroyed desks, computers, walls and all things that had previously made up the Silas Independent’s offices.

There’s somebody moving behind you, multiple people, calling and chasing. You don’t hear any of them. All you hear is the sound of your own blood racing, the way Danny had breathed the words _“I’m sorry”_ down the line, so damn familiar.

Your feet carry you towards voices, towards the back corner of the building. It’s the wrong floor, but it’s where Laura’s office _was_ —you look upwards, at the hole blown all the way to the ceiling, open to the afternoon air.

“Come on,” there’s a male voice shouting. “Come on, damn it! Don’t give up now!”

You blindly track it, tripping and skinning your palms on scattered bricks, but you don’t feel the bite or the blood. You stumble back to your feet, squint through the smoke, and carry on.

The moment you step onto the scene, pushing past the ruined remains of a photocopier buried beneath a half-fallen wall, your breath leaves you. Because… _Laura._

In a cluster of yellow-orange uniforms, there’s your girlfriend. She’s on her back, her button-down half ripped open. There’s blood all over her, burns and bruises and—oh god, you almost gag, you’re pretty sure that’s a _bone_ sticking out of her leg.

“Laura!”

Heads turn towards you, as you scramble over. The first to seize you is Danny, of course. Her face is dark, covered in ash, and her hair is more brunette now than ginger. She wraps her arms around you, hold you back, before you can tumble over to your girlfriend.

“Whoa, whoa! You can’t be here!”

“Get off me! Laura!” you shout, blind fury empowering you to do what you do next—with all the reflexes and the training you’ve had, but that you’ve willfully forgotten for years, you throw your head back, butt Danny in the nose, and then drag yourself sharply forward.

“Ugh—”

All the air leaves Danny as you flip her over your back, slam her harshly into the rubble. But you don’t stop to admire the view, to check on her. You’re already at Laura’s side.

“God…”

There’s no other words you can breathe, to sum up the sight.

Theo’s crouched over by her head, mouth locked on hers, exhaling deeply. There’s another firefighter, hands pressed over Laura’s blood-covered chest, rhythmically pounding it. You’ve never seen CPR in real life, despite knowing it, because your mother had never wanted to _save_ anyone.

“Laura, baby,” the firefighters allow you to pass, and you take her hand; it’s limp, bloodstained, dirty, but you squeeze it as hard as you dare. “God, come on, Laura. Breathe.”

A paramedic pushes in, too—it’s Kirsch, you realize, distantly.

The moments that follow pass in a haze, and if anybody were to ask you what happened, you’re not sure you could answer. All you know is that there’s a defibrillator, panels pressed to Laura’s chest, singeing marks on her skin. They shock her once, twice, three times—there’s voices, shouting, but it’s like you’re underwater.

“I love you,” you whisper, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Laura’s ear. “Don’t go…”

Loss is something you’ve known intimately over the years, something you’ve reluctantly come to live with. But your love for Laura is so strong, so powerful, it’s like a physical thing; it grips your chest, your heart, clings to all the hard and soft parts of you.

Hers is a loss you cannot abide, on you cannot recover from.

To take Laura is to take half of your heart.

“Please.”

You whisper the words, praying to all the gods you can name—the ones you don’t believe in, but for her, you would believe in _anything,_ would give _all of yourself_.

And, like a prayer answers, it happens: her hand flutters once, weakly, in your own.

“Laura,” you breathe.

Her chest rises and falls, unsteady, barely-there. Her eyes are dazed, bleary, but open. She’s looking at you, and her lips quirk, pulling at the cut on the side of her face, a trickle of crimson edging down her cheek.

“C-Carm,” her words are croaked, barely there.

“Laura…”

The world rushes in, all at once.

“Hey, little hottie,” Kirsch presses a hand gently to Laura’s shoulders, keeping her from even attempting to move. “Relax, your bro Kirsch is here to take care of you. Just relax, try not to move. You’re…gonna be feeling this in a minute.”

The words seem to go in and out of Laura’s ears without really processing, and you run a thumb over the back of Laura’s hand. When you lean over her, there’s tears in your eyes, matching her own. They run down your cheeks, dripping onto hers. “God, you’re okay,” you whisper, and though you don’t dare touch her cut, burned face, you press a light kiss to her forehead. “You’re okay.”

“I’m…okay,” Laura replies, words hoarse, voice weak.

“We’re gonna get you on some serious pain meds, before your everything kicks in,” Kirsch spoke up, as the circle of firefighters parted, setting up a board alongside her. “Then we’re gotta get you out of here, okay? And, as your designated bro-scort, I’m gonna make sure these fine dudes get you to the ambulance in one piece, alright?”

Laura’s eyes swing slowly, laboriously, to Kirsch. “Mm.”

He dug a canister from somewhere, a medical mouthpiece on one end. He gently slipped it over her head, fastening it over her face. “This is gonna rock your socks, little hottie,” he grinned, winking at the both of you. “Take lots of deep breaths, in and out.”

If you weren’t so overwhelmed, overcome with everything that’s happened since you’d set out from your apartment, a hot lunch date in mind, you’d probably snap at him. But, as it is, you’re too thankful that Laura’s here, alive, in one piece—her breathing is still ragged, too faint, barely there, but she’s _alive_.

Kirsch glances at you. “Come on, hotstuff. Let’s get out of the way. Cutie needs to get to the hospital, like, yesterday.”

You’re reluctant to let go of her, and the fragile hand in your own curls tighter with it. “I—”

He shakes his head. “I know, but they need to move her onto the board. We can’t move her like this. We don’t know what’s broken, or how bad it is.”

You look at Laura, at all the blood, bruises and the—yup, that’s _definitely_ a bone—wounds covering her. And you know he’s right, and it breaks your heart to have to let her go. You’d throw yourself in front of anything to keep her safe, but right now, you’re standing in the way of the help she needs.

“It’s okay, cupcake,” you gently let her hand go, heart breaking when she whines, too weak to fight to keep your hold. “I’ll be right here with you, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Her mouth opens again, and you can tell it takes all of her effort to force the words out. “I—love you,” but she’s always been a chatterbox, prone to babbling, telling tales and talking herself in circles; her breath comes out in pants, misting in the mask she’s wearing, “I—I want…”

You smile, but shush her. “Save it for the wedding day, creampuff.”

Kirsch brightens. “RSVP!”

You laugh, soft and low, but watch with hawk-eyes as the firefighters cram around Laura. Their hands are practiced, gentle. There’s a brace snapped around her neck, to keep Laura’s head from moving. Then they lift her, sliding her onto the board.

Your heart just about breaks when Laura lets out a cry, choked and pained, edged with a bitten-back scream. She’s in pain, despite the drugs Kirsch has given her. You can see the sudden crease in her forehead, the pallor of her skin, the way her hands curl tight at her sides.

She’s okay, but she’s not alright.

“One, two, three!”

You watch, helpless to do anything, as they pick up the stretcher. They ferry your girlfriend out between them, and you and Kirsch follow alongside them. You step around Danny’s, who’s picked herself up but is rubbing her jaw, watching the procession.

By the time you navigate back through the wreckage, you’d forgotten about the commotion outside. There’s shouting, yelling, and—you think you spot Perry, white-faced, sitting with another paramedic at the foot of another ambulance. You don’t look at them, though, you only have eyes for Laura.

There’s a stretcher prepared, and the gently transfer Laura over, mindful of her groaning and screaming—the hoarse, barely there cries, her voice too weak to really scream. Your hands fist tightly at your sides.

“Get in,” Kirsch tells you, when they load her into the ambulance—the same one you’d sat in. “I’ll ride with you and your girl. Mel can drive.”

The other paramedic bustles off to the front, and then it’s just the three of you.

It’s tight, cramped in the back. As the ambulance doors slam shut, and you leave the scene, you sit as close to Laura as you can. Your knees keep bumping up against the side of the stretcher with every turn, but you don’t complain. You take her hand, gripping it tight, like a lifeline.

She blinks up at you, expression bunched—but it’s not the cute, angry face you’re used to, instead it’s just agonized. There are tears streaking her cheeks, and you’re not sure if they’re from the pain, the shock, or the stress—or, more likely, all three.

“You’ll be okay, sweetness,” you whisper, smoothing a hand over her forehead. “It’s alright, don’t cry.”

You sit in the back of the ambulance, whispering soft, sweet things to her; things you’d never let anybody else hear, secret things, just for Laura.

Kirsch pretends he doesn’t hear them, monitoring her vitals and doing what he can.

It’s the longest ride of your life.


	2. hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, waiting is the hardest thing. Not knowing if she's okay, if she's alive, if anything. It's like someone's stolen a piece of you, ripped out your heart to play a game of keep-away. 
> 
> Thank God for Mattie.

Mattie finds you in the fifth hour, sitting in the waiting room with your head in your bloodstained hands.

“Oh, darling,” and your sister’s never been one for affection, for soft touches and soft words—she’s like you, iron sharpened, steel in her spine—but she gathers you to her like a broken, fragmented thing; all gentle hands and comforting touch. “Come here.”

You fall into her, gasping like you’ve never tasted fresh air. “Mattie, I—you’re here.”

“Shh, shh,” she soothes, a hand passing through your hair, combing out the tangled, snarled knots. “How could I not come? I would wreck the world for you, if it would keep you happy.”

Like all things Mattie says, she speaks blunt, true. The words fill you to the brim, a torrent into your overflowing cup of emotions—because your sister loves you, this you’ve always known, but she’s real and she’s here and she would _destroy_ for you. And you wish you could have had that, before; when Mother was around, and William was still on tormenting terms, when everything was _hell_ —but you’d both been too terrified.

“How,” you tuck your head into her shoulder, knees to your chest; hospital chairs are awkward, and you’re sprawled awkwardly, but the position feels _right_ , “did this happen?”

Mattie chuckles, a low rumble. “Your girlfriend ran her mouth again, I imagine—I did warn you, darling, that girl has more stubbornness than sense.”

You laugh, too, because otherwise your tears will begin anew; it’s taken you the better part of five long, lonely, agonizing hours to pull yourself into some semblance of order. “We’re going to get married,” you breathe, eyes closed tight. “When she’s…when she’s okay, I’m going to take her down to city hall, or a church, or wherever we need to go, and I’m going to marry the hell out of her.”

“You will do no such thing, Carmilla Karnstein,” Mattie’s voice is stern, even as she smooths your hair away from your forehead. There’s a smile in her tone. “I will not stand idly by and let you wave away such a momentous day, sweet thing. I’ve been waiting for this day for a _decade_ , and you will not deprive your big sister of her wedding planning rights with a city hall wedding.”

You reach up, catch Mattie’s hand with your own; she doesn’t make a protest, although you can feel her sigh at the sight of your mangled, dirty hands against her own, perfectly manicured ones. “Wedding planner _and_ Maid of Honor? Aiming high, aren’t you?”

“’Aim for the stars’,” Mattie recites, warm. “I expect your fiancée to fight me on every decision.”

Of course, It’s Laura “Control Freak” Hollis she’s talking about.

“No doves.”

Mattie rests her head gently against yours, scoffs. “ _Darling_ , what’s a wedding without doves?”

Laughter, bright and more alive than you’ve felt in hours, spills from your lips. You’re worn, wrung-out, but the warmth of your sister and the knowledge that Laura’s _safe_ , well—you may not sleep tonight, or for a while yet, but you feel like you can finally breathe, like it’s safe to _exhale_.

* * *

Hospitals exist in this weird space-time, you’re sure: they sap time away, you blink and an hour passes without a word, and yet simultaneously, the seconds seem to crawl.

You’ve mapped out all the edges of the waiting room, and if you were in any way artistically inclined, you’re sure you could have reproduced it with closed eyes. Alas, like your girlfriend, your artistic talents lay in more literary pursuits. You could wax poetry, certainly, about the way the shadows of night falling and rising haven’t so much as touched the stark walls, or about the dread-lined faces of your compatriots in wait—but, you’re tired.

It’s been—your eyes flicker to the clock, the taunting tick of time—nearly eighteen hours now.

Almost a full day since Laura was admitted.

You’re still here, waiting. You’ll wait forever. You’d live your entire life beside her, _will_ live your entire life with her (your mind plays the image of her in white, hair like spun gold, and smiling), if she’ll have you. You’ll wait however long it takes.

“This shouldn’t be taking so long, right? I mean—” there’s a shuffle of moment behind you, but you don’t stop your pacing, don’t turn your back. “I mean, is this normal? How long could she possibly be in surgery for? Do you think something’s wrong? Is she…? I mean, she—she was _buried_ , and, and…God, Laura.”

The company, however, leaves something to be desired.

Crumpled against the seats, still as sheet-white as when they’d ferried her in (on a stretcher, with shaky hands and tears in her eyes), Lola Perry is about one more hyperventilated breath away from a complete breakdown.

You’re not sure what the legalities are about throttling someone clearly in shock, but you’re certain that the hospital is probably the best place to do it.

“Why?” Perry’s still talking, no matter how hard you turn on your heel, glaring at her. “I mean, why her? Why us? We…we’re just a newspaper! We run advice columns, I give _baking_ advice, and I—I don’t understand. Why—why did this happen? Why does she have to be so, so _noble_ , chasing after all these stories, why—”

God, you wish Mattie were still here—but your sister’s gone, for now, to sort ‘affairs’ and to chase you down some new clothes.

Your sister is gone, and all you’re is left with the peanut gallery.

Sometime over the hours, you’ve been joined by more than just your sister. LaFontaine and J.P. had come in with a bag of food and circles under their eyes—your stomach had turned at the Chinese, and you’d pointedly ignored them ever since. Perry had been released from the hospital (although, you think she’d probably suit the psychiatric unit just fine) sometime after that.

“Listen here, Raggedy Anne—” you bite, hands clenched, uncaring of the way it pulls at your scabbed palms; you can’t listen to her psychotic break, because you’re still so close to your own, sick with worry. “If you don’t put a fucking _sock_ in it, I’m going to—”

LaFontaine catches your murderous expression, and they seize Perry by the wrists. “I’m just going to, um, take her for some fresh air,” she explains to you, the shadows on their face are long, drawn, but a pale imitation of the wear you can feel on your own. “Come on, Perr, let’s go for a walk.”

“A…a walk?” Perry blinks, suddenly present, glazed eyes snapping to their face. “Yeah, okay…”

You watch them go, eyes sharp, and ignore the stinging sensation in your eyes. You’ve cried all the tears you can afford in the past day, and you’re desperate to regain some sort of control, some sort of fortitude. You _refuse_ to cry again, not now.

Left alone with you, J.P. takes one look at your expression, and stands.

“I’ll go see if I can get any information,” he declares, and you’ve always hated that stupid, lilting way he speaks, his dumb accent. “I shall be back.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, and collapse into the seat he’d vacated.

“Alright, cupcake,” you murmur softly, eyes fixed on the doors that restrict your access, that they’d rushed Laura through and left you standing alone, covered in smoke and blood, “come on now, don’t leave me waiting.”

* * *

The rest of the night comes and goes in a blur, and you ignore everyone else. You have no interest in their pity parties, or the games they’ve procured (you’re certain, once all of this is over, that you’ll never be able to see Scrabble without wanting to snap the board over LaFontaine’s head). You just alternate between watching the clock and watching the doors.

There’s been no news, thus far—but, as LaF proclaims, “no news is good news, right?”

You’re not inclined to agree, of course. Because it’d be nice if _someone_ in this hospital could tell you whether, you know, your girlfriend is going to be alright.

Mattie comes back, eventually, and practically frog-marches you to the bathrooms when you refuse to leave the waiting room, for fear of news coming while you’re not there.

“Come on, darling,” she’s grimacing at you, nose wrinkled and eyebrows drawn. Her arm catches you around the wrist, half-twists it behind your back, nudges you forward. “Laura has always been awful at deadlines, but she’s nothing if not consistent. I doubt she’s going to shake that reputation now.”

You hiss, angry. “Mattie—”

“You smell like a smokestack, dearest,” she replies, frustration flashing across her face, as she manhandles you down the hall—her smile, offered at a passing nurse, is entirely too innocent. “It’s time to woman up, sis. I doubt your girlfriend will want to see you—” she pauses, shakes her head, “—or smell you, like this.”

Before you can protest, she’s dragging you into a bathroom. It must belong to the nurses or something—Mattie unlocks it with the swipe of a card, and you have no idea where she got it—but there’s a single toilet stall, a shower, and a long mirror set on the wall.

“Here,” Mattie pulls her enormous tote from her shoulder, and when she opens it, you can see it’s got a towel, some clothes, and a toiletry bag inside; and apparently, she’s raided your house, because they’re all yours. “Get yourself cleaned up, dear. I’ll be outside. If there’s any word, _anything_ , I’ll let you know.”

It makes your heart swell, again, to know just how much Mattie truly does care for you. Because there have been rough patches, rough _years_ , in your relationship; she’d been bitter for a time, you think, when you’d first run out on your mother (and her), because she’d never been able to liberate herself quite the same.

You take the bag from her shoulder, hold it tight to your chest, like it will contain the things that want to spill from you. “I…” you’re thankful for her, really, truly; you’re not blood-sisters, but you’re sisters in all the ways that matter, “thanks, Mattie.”

“Not at all,” she flashes a dazzling smile as she leaves. “It’s just what big sisters do, sweetheart.”

God, you love her.

* * *

The shower shakes the haze away from you, the exhaustion of no sleep and too much emotion. When you step out of the steam, your eyes are a little red-rimmed (because Mattie had grabbed _Laura’s_ soap instead of yours, and the sweet, flowery scent had left you an embarrassing, bawling mess). But your skin has more color, you think, than it has all night, and you feel refreshed.

You feel more human you pull on clean clothes. It’s your typical ‘feel good’ outfit, because Mattie knows you, knows you need the boost. It’s always a struggle to pull on leather pants after a shower, but when you’ve got them on, with your favorite boots, a Ramones shirt and a leather jacket, you feel like _yourself,_ like _Carmilla_ again.

You spend a little time staring at yourself in the mirror, makeup expertly applied; dark-eyeliner, rouge lipstick, the same shades and styles you’d worn for years, since long before you met Laura.

There’s a small chunk of time, when the makeup is done and you’re dressed and there’s steam whirling around you in the air, that you take the time to look at yourself. You still look the same, despite the circles under your eyes and the wet hair plastered to your collar.

It’s the same girl who you’d seen in the mirror yesterday afternoon, the girl from _before_ , even if her eyes are different.

(Nothing’s changed, not you and not Laura.)

(You’re fine.)

“Okay,” you take a breath, deep, fortifying.

When you step outside, Mattie is leaning against the wall, thumbing through something on her phone. There’s a furrow in her brow, a discomforting twist to her lips. She’s not normally inclined to letting her feelings, beyond rage, show on her face. Something like ice sits in your stomach.

“Problem?”

She blinks up at you, taken off-guard for the briefest of moments. “Ah,” she locks her phone, dumps it into her bag without a second thought, and shakes her head. “Look at you, less chimney-sweep, more Joan Jett. It’s a good look for you.”

Your lip curls, despite yourself. “Mattie,” you say, bland, head tilting. “What is it?”

“Nothing, dear,” she answers, but it’s her PR voice—the one that she wears for her role as the new, official CEO of Morgan Enterprises. “Just a little bit of light reading.”

And really, you know you should press her for answers. Mattie may be tight lipped, may be almost impossible to read at times, but you know her better than anyone else in this world—there’s something she’s not saying. But, you’re still bone-tired, too exhausted to chase her. You’ve done too much running, chasing, thinking.

“Anything?”

Mattie shakes her head, accepts the tote bag from your arms. “Nothing yet, although I expect there should be something soon.”

A fine tremor runs through you at the thought, but you conceal it as a shiver, clutching your jacket tighter to you. “Let’s go. I…need to get back,” you swallow hard. “I should be there, if there’s news.”

“Of course,” she lets you lead the way, back through the halls.

When you arrive back in the dreaded waiting room, it’s just as crowded as you remember; different faces, different seating arrangements, but still as full as the city’s largest hospital always is.

When you’d first arrived, hours earlier, they’d had the hospital virtually on lockdown. There were a dozen patients here, pulled from the scene, and people were still on high alert. You remember, vaguely, armed guards stationed at the doors.

Before they’d taken Laura through the impenetrable doors, and Kirsch had levered you down into one of the seats, there had been a dozen others here, screaming and crying like you—family members or friends of those caught in the crossfire. As time went on, though, and people made it out of surgery or into rooms, they’d slowly filtered out. It’d been just you, until they’d opened the room to the public again.

From the game they’re involved in, LaF looks up and meets your burning gaze, then they shake their head, wordless.

Nothing—it’s Schrodinger’s news, both good and bad, until you know definitively.

You sit away from them, pointedly, as far in the corner as you can be. You’ve got an eyeline with the door and the clock, that’s all you need. You don’t need the questions, the games, the freakouts, the entire collective chaos that comes with your girlfriend’s friends—your friends, though you’ll vehemently deny it if asked.

Mattie sits next to you, one leg tucked primly over the other. “I have to admit,” she says, after a while, “you’re handling this a lot better than I expected.”

You glance at her, a glare, a flush of fury through you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, dear sister,” she rolls her eyes, shrugs—now that you’re fresh, showered, a little more put together, there’s measures of steel back in her spine, in her tone; she won’t treat you like glass for long. “I remember you, the _younger_ you. You were always so impetuous. You’d be screaming at anybody who would listen, demanding answers, breaking things. You were a rebellious child, headstrong child then.”

There’s a thread of nostalgia to her words, despite the fact that neither of you want to relive those days. You glare at her, arms crossing tightly. “Yelling, screaming, it solves nothing—” you don’t mention that you’d tried that, hours ago, and it’d earned you nothing more than condemnation from the nurses and the threat of being thrown out. “I need to be here when Laura…when she’s okay.”

Mattie tips her head, then, expression assessing. “You’ve changed,” she says, leadingly.

“I think we all have,” you answer, cautious.

“Laura, she changed you,” Mattie’s hand finds your arm, then, warm; your hands are clean, blood scrubbed away, leaving only half-scabbed grazes that sting slightly when Mattie threads her hand into your own. “For the better, I think. Bless her kind, idealistic heart.”

You laugh, then, wry. “She’s the best thing that’s ever been mine,” you reply, soft, coils of affection and worry dueling inside of you, seizing your chest with unsteady, squeezing sensations. “She makes everything make sense. She makes everything… _better_. She makes _me_ better, better than I ever thought she could be.”

“Look at you, all lovestruck and starry-eyed,” Mattie pinches your cheek with her free hand, cackling. “I hated her, when we first met her. I mean, she put our mother in _prison._ Admittedly, I would have liked to have done it myself, but—she was still _Mother_. I wanted to wring her pretty little neck.”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, smiling.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t,” she acknowledges, matching your smile with an edged one, “no matter how much I _wanted_ to, because I couldn’t stand being responsible for wiping that adorable, smitten look from your face. It would be like kicking a puppy—and I may be a ‘coldhearted witch’—”

You smirk at the reminder of Laura’s explosive words to your sister, one of the many altercations that had come about in their initial meetings.

“—but even _I_ have some morals,” Mattie finishes, sly. “No matter how much Mother tried to work those out of me.”

“Somebody had to.”

“Indeed. Although I think your girlfriend has more morals than the rest of us combined,” Mattie answers, careful—her words aren’t intended to be barbed, not to you, but the reminder in her words is sharp-edged all the same. “Honestly, that girl is a bastion of good and _right_ , darling. There’s entirely too much optimism and determination in that girl.”

“I know,” and you do, really, because despite how much your worldviews clash (you see things in greys, dark shades; Laura sees the world in black and white, clear divides of ‘good’ and ‘bad’). “She’s my lighthouse. She keeps my messed-up world on track, keeps me where I need to be.”

When you fled your mother, with barely more than a backpack and the clothes on your back, you’d been lost. After so long in Lilita Morgan’s shadow, your world view was skewed, screwed. Even now, you struggle to see clear lines of right and wrong, struggle to see why you should _care_.

But Laura, she cares enough for both of you; she guides you through the dark, away from rocky outcrops and dangerous tides.

“God, you’re so in love, it’s almost sickening.”

You smile. “I know.”

“Your wedding is going to be fantastic,” Mattie declares, picking at her—still pristine—nails. “Despite everything, she really will be a beautiful bride—both of you will.”

A blooming, blossoming sensation fills your chest; hope and pride and love unfurling in you.

“Did you ever imagine we’d be here?” you ask, soft, low. “All those years ago, when Mother was still—well, _herself._ Did you ever think we’d have this?”

Mattie chuckles, nudges your elbow with hers. “I thought you’d make good on your intent to sleep your way across Styria, and die in spinsterdom forever,” she grins wickedly as you roll your eyes. “I never thought you’d actually settle down, and with a girl like Laura, too.”

“She’s the love of my life.”

“God, you’re such a romantic cliché,” Mattie drawls, but there’s no bite to her words, and her fingers squeeze tightly over yours. “I wouldn’t take back a single thing. None of it.”

You tip your head to rest on Mattie’s shoulder, taking a deep, sighing breath. “I wish—I would take back this.”

Mattie pauses, just for a second. “I know, sweetness. I know.”

“I just…I wish she wasn’t so, so—” stupid, just, self-sacrificing, stubborn, headstrong, _goodhearted_ , “ _—Laura_.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t,” you reply, thick. “I just wish she’d be safe.”

“A girl like that, asking for all that trouble? You’re lucky she hasn’t gotten herself killed sooner.”

Lucky, right.

“Yeah.”

* * *

“Miss Karnstein?”

It’s something like a half-hour later when the doors at the end of the hall open, and a man wearing a lab coat and surgical scrubs emerges. The head that had been resting on Mattie’s shoulder, eyes half-closed, shoots up. You stand, quicker than you’ve moved in your life.

“That’s me,” your eyes are wide, eager, demanding. “How’s Laura?”

“Recovering,” he answers, and all your breath leaves you in a rush, relief rippling through you like a physical thing, all the muscles in your body simultaneously easing. “Her injuries were extensive, and very severe. Things were very touch-and-go for some time, so I apologize for the long wait. But, Miss Hollis is in recovery now, her surgeries went well.”

“Surgeries? Like, plural?”

It’s LaFontaine’s voice at your side, and you realize that you’re the only one who got a chance to see Laura before she’d been taken back—you got to see her ruined, wrecked body, had seen her nearly _die_ (she did die, you remind yourself numbly, you’re just lucky enough that they could bring her back—and wow, that’s another nightmare you’re sure you’ll add to the laundry list).

The doctor’s eyes dart to yours, as if asking for permission.

You meet his eyes numbly, wordless.

“Miss Hollis sustained massive injuries in the blast,” he says, tentative. “On top of the expected burns, bruises and contusions, I’m afraid her leg was rather badly broken. The most severe injury, however, was her chest. I understand she was pinned beneath a beam?”

You nod, choked.

Mattie’s hand finds yours, then, and you’re grateful for her presence, because your knees are proving suddenly weak. There’s images of Laura, bloodied and broken, playing on a loop in your head.

“Well, it there were compound fractures on much of her ribcage, and she’s quite lucky that she avoided puncturing a lung,” he shakes his head, eyes closing for a moment, then plows on. “Between being suffocated by the weight on her chest, she also suffered from extreme smoke and dust inhalation. It put quite a strain on her body, and she is in quite the state. She’s stable, but sedated, for now.”

“How long—” your voice breaks. “I want to see her.”

He hesitates. “I understand, and I’m sure she’ll be glad for the visitors, however, there’s no visitors being admitted to her room currently.”

“No, I want to see her!”

“Ma’am, please,” his eyes dart behind you, to the rest of the room, but you don’t give a _fuck_ about all the people watching. “She’s under strict observation, and—”

“No, okay, no! I’ve been waiting for _hours_ , okay?” the words come out half-snarled, and you see his eyes dart frantically around, presumably for the security officers—or perhaps the armed guards, if they’re still on site. “Do you know what that’s like? Sitting here, wondering if my girlfriend, my—my _fiancée_ —is dead or alive? With no word? Not knowing if she’s going…going to survive, or if I'd—if I'd seen her for the last time!”

You put your hands up, all Laura’s talks of ‘morals’ and ‘good deeds’ fleeing with the idea that you _can’t see her_ , and consider wringing his neck. Before you can do more than take a step, threatening, hands catch your own.

“Stop it!”

You struggle, briefly, against Mattie’s touch. But these aren’t the soft, kind hands she’s been treating you with all night, this is the iron touch of your older sister, your mother’s other daughter—the one who had fought, bled and clawed her way out, just like you.

“Carmilla, that’s _enough._ ”

You fight, for a second more, before you fall still. “I want to see her,” you whisper, frail. “Please.”

There’s a moment of silence, before the doctor clears his throat. “We’re fine, please,” and when you look up at the sound of his voice, it’s to see the sight of security at his sides, eyes narrowed on you but slowly backing up. The doctor turns his eyes to you, then. “Miss Karnstein…”

You look away, just for a moment. “Sorry, I—it’s been a long night.”

He’s smiling when you look back, the lines in his face bright, sympathetic. “For all of us, I assure you,” there’s something in his tone that sounds like a reprimand—you realize, abruptly, that this man’s been on the other side of your struggle, working frantically for hours to scrape the pieces of your love back together. “It’s quite alright.”

“I—” perhaps he might understand. “Just five minutes, please?”

He heaves a sigh, tapping the clipboard tucked under his arm nervously. “No more than that,” he says, and you sag, relieved. “And only you.”

Mattie releases you, and you stagger under the weight of the doctor’s words. “Thank you,” you breathe, and the thanks are coming easier and easier, today—there’s a lot, you think absently, to be grateful for. “Thank you, so much.”

“Not at all,” he shakes his head. “Come then, dear. Let’s take you to see her, hm?”

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The heart monitor is slow, relaxed; the room filled with the sounds of Laura’s sleeping heartbeat.

“Hey, Cupcake,” you whisper. “It’s me.”

The lights are dimmed in the room. It’s private, nobody else around. There are armed guards at the door, because Laura’s the first and only confirmed survivor of the attack—and it is an attack, they now know—and they want to keep her on watch. Everything is still, quiet here. You are surrounded by Laura.

The sight of her takes your breath away.

The sensation is nothing new, because she’s stolen your breath away more times than you can count. She’s so beautiful, sometimes you can’t help but forget to breathe.

But this is different.

(She’s still, like a corpse.)

They’ve cleaned her up, put her back together, but somehow that just makes it worse. Now, with time and distance, without the smoke to obscure her or the adrenaline to muddle your mind, you’re left with only reality.

Reality is ugly, wounded.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you choke the words out, struggle to find them around the knot of emotion in your throat. You want to reach out, stroke her hair, kiss her brow, but you can’t. You’re scared she’ll shatter. “I was so…so _scared_. God, I thought you were going to die, Laura. I _watched_ you die!”

Her leg is in a cast, raised upwards. There’s a blanket placed over her, but it’s settled across her waist, leaving her upper half free. Under the paper hospital gown, you can see thick, padded bandages all over her, poking out of the neck of her gown.

“Look at you,” you shake your head, swipe the tears away from your cheeks. “You’re a mess, Hollis.”

Laura’s breathing is soft, easier than the struggling, whining ones she’d taken over the phone. There’s an oxygen mask on her face, and it mists softly with each breath. Her expression is still scrunched, pained, even in sleep. It pulls on the stitches in her brow.

“You’ve made a mess of me.”

There’s so many things you could say, should say, want to say. But it’s not the right time or place. Laura’s unconscious, injured, fresh from surgery. You’re on a countdown.

“I love you so, so much,” you tell her, the words coming easier, not nearly so panicked as when you’d had her on the phone, the air being squeezed from her chest, listening to her slowly suffocate. “I’d do anything for you, sunshine. I’m yours, forever. I want to grow old with you. I want to do all those stupid, cutesy, couple-y things, and I want to do them with you.”

Your breath shudders, and you roughly wipe the tears from your cheeks again. “So, you hang in there, okay? For me?”

“Miss Karnstein? I’m afraid that it’s time to go.”

You nod, unsteady, and keep your back to him—he doesn’t need to see your tears, or the fragile expression on your face; those are personal things, private, for Laura only.

“I’ll see you later, cupcake,” you place a soft kiss to her palm, careful of the IV. “I love you.”

Laura doesn’t reply, sleeping like the dead.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

(Her heartbeat is enough, for now.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was going to be a two-chapter thing, but it just felt natural to break it off here. This _should_ conclude with the next chapter, but, well, you never know. Enjoy the update, you little monsters. I was too eager to hold it back. It's a bit shorter than the first, but the third will hopefully be along sometime tomorrow.


	3. shudder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carmilla deals with things the only way she knows how.

When you leave, the doctor—Laura’s doctor, Dr. Chambers (not normally a surgeon, you find, but with all the chaos they’d been short-staffed, and he’d been roped in to assisting)—gives you the rundown.

Laura will be sedated for another day or so, to give her body time to recover, rest. She’ll sleep through the worst of it. After that, she’ll be on potent medicine for the pain, but left to wake under her own power.

For now, though, between observing her condition and documenting her injuries for the police report, visiting hours are firmly off the table.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for you to peel yourself away from the doors of your girlfriend’s room in the ICU. Through the glass and the armed guards, you spend a moment watching her. She’s still, unmoving—the sedatives at work.

From this distance, she looks small, fragile.

You want nothing more than to gather her to you, hold her close, never release her. You want to take her back to the apartment you share, bundle her in all the blankets you can find. You want her safe, sound. You just want Laura, laughing and smiling and _breathing_.

Laura, Laura, Laura.

It all comes back to her, she is the moon and you are the tide, helpless within her gravity, your fury dictated by the degrees of closeness between you.

Protectiveness is not a feeling you’re unaccustomed to, this you know. When you spend so long in life holding on to what little pleasures you have, to keep them safe, secret, you develop somewhat of a habit. Normally, you downplay it for Laura’s sake, because there’s no sooner way to get on her bad side than to baby her, or try to tell her what to do ( _“I’m a person, not property, Carm. Get that through your head!”)_ —it’s been the cause of much friction through the course of your relationship.

In this instance, though, you forgive yourself—and you’re sure Laura would, too, if she were awake, if she could see into the deep, dark crevasses re-opened inside of you, read the fear and the fury duelling inside your chest.

“How long until I can visit her again?”

Dr. Chambers sighs, shakes his head. “Until she’s in the clear, and stable enough to be taken off round-the-clock watch,” he waves for you to follow him, and you do so reluctantly, managing to will yourself not to glance back. “A day? Two? It’s too early to say, I’m afraid.”

Frustration ebbs through you. “She’s not going to—”

“Make no mistake, Miss Hollis is currently stable, but she is not yet out of the woods,” there’s sympathy in his eyes, but beyond that, he’s resolute; he cuts off any chance of your retort with blunt fact. “Her injuries are extensive, and there’s a very real, very probable chance that something could go wrong.”

“But she—”

“Is fine, currently,” he interrupts, serious. “But, not all recovery is linear. Sometimes, despite all seeming well, a patient can suddenly take a turn. That’s why we have an Intensive Care Unit, so that those who pose a very real chance of relapse, like your girlfriend, can be monitored closely. If she needs further intervention, better here, where there will be someone assigned to watch her, than if she was on her own.”

His logic is sound, and you can’t fault it, no matter how much you want to. Because you’d seen Laura laying in the bed, so small and still, and the sounds of her struggling, hissing (dying) breaths will forever haunt you. She needs to be here, for her own sake, but that doesn’t mean you need like it.

“What do I do?”

“Right now, the best you can do,” he answers, clapping a hand on your shoulder and leading you through the double-doors, back towards the waiting room, “is go home, get some rest. Miss Hollis will be alright in our care, I assure you. For now, you should be taking care of yourself.”

You want to ask him how you can possibly rest, how you can lay your head down in the big, empty bed you’ve never had alone, and _sleep_. Because your heart is here, in the hospital. You’re hollowed out, empty, numb. How can you rest, when the images won’t stop playing behind your eyes— _a rocking explosion, rolling smoke, a ruined building, blood and breathing and Laura’s too-still chest._

You feel, suddenly, centuries old; twenty-two going on two hundred.

He must take your silence for acceptance, because his hand on your shoulder is warm as he squeezes and then releases it. “Go home. Sleep. Refresh yourself. You’re of no good to anyone waiting here all night,” he shakes his head. “I may not have had the pleasure of conversation with her, but I’ve read Miss Hollis’ articles before, and the preliminary report about the incident. I…do believe her to be a fiercely caring, dedicated woman.”

“She is,” and the words come out weaker, hollower, than you intend.

“Then I think, all things considered, that she wouldn’t want you to worry for her sake. I think it would ease her mind some, when she wakes, to know that the woman she loves isn’t running herself needlessly ragged.”

The urge to bite the doctor’s head off wells in your chest, pools angrily in the dips of your collarbones, white-hot, molten. You’ve never taken direction, commands, well. And to have him speaking for Laura, like he knows _anything_ about what she’d want—it infuriates you, the raw, sensitive pieces you haven’t been able to quell.

But, when you open your mouth, nothing comes out but a simple, croaked, “yeah.”

The waiting room is still bustling with activity, as you step back in. In fact, it only gets louder, as a sudden huddle of people surround the two of you: a curious LaFontaine, a wide-eyed Perry, an inquisitive J.P., and a silent, assessing Mattie.

The doctor looks around at all your… _friends_ , offers a tired smile. “Now go, Miss Karnstein. Rest assured, as Miss Hollis’ emergency contact, if there’s any change in her condition, you will be notified immediately.”

You nod, wordless.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mattie catches your arm. “You’ve been such help.”

“My pleasure. Now, take care—all of you,” he looks down then, glances at the pager clipped to his belt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”

“Of course,” Mattie inclines her head, gently pulls you away.

There’s a torrent of questions being thrown at you, overeager, blurring over you in a rush. Your girlfriend’s co-workers are clambering over each other to bombard you, voices loud, insistent. But you ignore them, silent.

“Darlings,” Mattie’s arm holds yours by the crook, tight, and she’s glaring at them with that _look_ she wears—like the devil in designer clothes. “It has been a very, very long evening. For _all_ of us. And, much as I’m sure we’d like to stay and field your incessant Q&A all afternoon, there are more important matters to attend to.”

J.P. and Perry, easily cowed, wither under her attention.

LaFontaine, however, has both the brain and the curiosity of a scientist, and doesn’t even seem to notice the thread of a threat in your sister’s words. “But Laura, is she—I mean, she’s okay, right?”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

Nothing is _okay_ , you want to hiss.

“There will be time for questions later,” Mattie bites, and her sunny, innocent PR smile nothing short of menacing; her arm curls in yours a little tighter, pulls you flush against her side. “For now, it’s time we all retire, I think. I will be taking Carmilla home now.”

Honestly, thank God for Mattie. You’re not sure you’d have gotten through these hours intact, or without an arrest warrant for murder, without her by your side.

“Goodnight, all.”

She pulls you away, towards the exit, phone in hand.

You don’t know how she does it, but by the time you’re stepping out into the mid-afternoon sun, there’s a sleek, black car parked in place. A doorman steps out as you approach, pulling the door open.

You clamber inside, across leather seats, and deposit yourself bonelessly. It’s like the moment you hit the supple material, everything catches up to you. You curl your knees up against your chest, not even bothering to belt yourself in, and press your face to the blackout glass.

Mattie slides effortlessly, graceful, in after you. “Well,” she announces. “That’s quite enough of that for one day, I think.”

You swallow down the instinctive, bitter reply. “Yeah.”

Silence sits between you for the longest moment, stretching into eternity. You watch the car pull away from the hospital, watch it grow smaller in the distance, and feel the empty, hollow cavity in your chest throb once, twice, a reminder.

You close your eyes, try to block the sight of it fading in the rear-view.

Before you know it, the entire day’s events begin to crash down on you, more than twenty-four hours of no sleep and high-stress. You’re sagging against the glass, unable to muster up the effort to open your eyes again.

“Rest easy, sweet girl,” Mattie’s hand strokes over your hair, just once. “Let’s get you home.”

By the time you wake, you’re in bed, alone. Mattie is gone.

* * *

The ensuing days are harder, somehow, than the first.

You’ve got time off from the bar. The moment they’d gotten news of why you’d never showed up for your shift, or the following one, your boss had given you as much leave as you needed ( _“I’m a slave-driver, but I’m not the Wicked Witch of West Styria. Don’t come back until shit’s together, Karnstein.”)_.

You should be thankful for the time off, you’re not sure you’ll be able to concentrate on mixing drinks or dealing with customers, but you’re not. You’re a mixed drink all your own: one part scared, one part scarred, two parts two-much-time-to-think—a _Karnstein_ , you think, shaken _and_ stirred.

No matter how many times you go to the hospital, there’s nothing you can do. Dr. Chambers stops by to talk to you when he can, despite Laura not being his only case, but no amount of talking can get him to sneak you back to visit her again. She’s still in the ICU, unconscious, despite being taken off the sedatives.

There’s only so long you can stake out the hospital, before it begins to get ridiculous. So, you spend the time at home.

Mattie has work to settle, responsibilities she’d pushed aside in her rush to get to you, but she’s resumed them since, coming and going randomly. The rest of the Independent’s workers, those who missed the attack or made it out, drop by once or twice, flowers and cards in hand.

You don’t answer the door, mostly.

Instead, you spend your time online, reading all the updates you can.

The Independent’s website is still up, but it hasn’t been updated at all since the attack—you know J.P. has access, and there’s probably a million articles waiting to go up, but out of respect, there’s nothing new. Only the view counter, numbering in well over the millions and steadily climbing, changes.

The Styrian News Network runs a long segment on everything. You watch with trembling hands as they talk about ‘motivations’ and ‘a high-profile exposé’ and ‘a warning’, as they play interviews and eye-witness accounts, as they display clips from the scene.

When they plaster Laura’s face—bright, smiling, her graduation photo—on the screen, and juxtapose it with the image of her stretcher-bound, your ghost-white, agonized face at her side as you rush for an ambulance, you squeeze your glass of water so tight a crack spiderwebs up the side. You swap it for whiskey.

You don’t get any calls, which you’re thankful for. You’d cracked and tossed your phone in the street, that first day. The one you have now was a gift from Mattie, a brand-new smartphone, and only a precious few people have the number: the hospital, and your sister.

The only calls you’ve made is to Laura’s father, sometime in the dead of the night that first night—you don’t even remember dialing the number, procured from a post-it on the fridge.

That conversation was harder than anything you’ve ever done.

* * *

_“…Hello?”_

_Sherman Hollis is a warm, bright, jolly man—mostly, anyway. In all the times you’ve talked to him, even when he’s been threatening you to ‘treat his daughter right, or else’, he’s always filled up the room with his personality._

_The Sherman that answers the phone, that night, is muted, drained, ghost-like._

_“Mr. Hollis,” you breathe, after a moment of silence. “It’s me.”_

_There’s a deep, unsteady sound on the other end, a high whine. You haven’t talked often, on the phone or in person, but you’ve been in the background for enough of his and Laura’s Skype chats, and you’ve been (very reluctantly) to Christmas and family dinners. You know he knows who you are._

_“Carmilla…” his voice is soft, thick._

_You feel tears streak down your cheeks, because if anybody can understand your pain, your suffering, it’s this man—the man who had raised the fierce, righteous spitfire that you love, who had held her hand and doggedly chased each of her steps from the moment she was born._

_“I—I was there,” your words are broken, fragmented, edged in a sob. “L-Laura, when they—when they pulled her out. I was there, I watched…I_ saw _it. I saw her. And—I, we were in the ambulance, the hospital, I—”_

_He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and you know he’s crying too._

_“How? How did this happen? Why? Why her?” and it’s all the same questions you’ve asked yourself, babbled at you, half-mad. “Is she okay? She’s—I got a call from the hospital, and from her friend, LaFontaine? They said she was alive, but that they—they couldn’t tell me anything else. But, they said you saw her!”_

_You shake your head. “It was just for a second. Just, she, I…she’s alive, but she’s—she’s not alright, Mr. Hollis.”_

_“I’m coming, as soon as I can. There’s no flights right now, but I don’t care, I’ll drive anywhere if I have to,” it’s winter in Canada right now, and you remember Laura vaguely saying something about blizzards and houses being snow-bound. You remember, more clearly, the way she’d expressed worry for her father, because they both hate driving in frost. “I’ll get there. I’m coming to see her. I—I need to see her.”_

_“There’s nothing you can do right now,” you tell him, frustrated at the helplessness in your own words, at the truth of it. “She’s…in the ICU, no visitors. She’s sedated, she—she’ll be there for a few days, I think. So, please, don’t do anything stupid.”_

_You hear a sharp, angry intake of breath on the line—the same as Laura’s, hissed through the teeth, deliberate. “If you think,” he bites, “that I’m going to let my baby girl be alone, in the hospital, and not even_ try _to get to her, after all of this, then, then—”_

_“Please, Sherman,” the words are a plead, because you know Laura, and you know she’ll want to see her dad in time, but not at the expense of his own safety, not driving through snow and slush—she’s never forgotten her mother’s accident, even now (“we just went to get some water,” she’d cried into your shoulder, somewhere in the sixth month of your dating, “and—and the car slid, we hit a pole, and, there was_ so much _blood”). “Don’t.”_

_He’s silent, for a moment. “I won’t—I should be there.”_

_“Just wait for the weather to clear, please. Laura would—” your proud, because your voice only fails a little on Laura’s name, despite all the things crawling in your chest. “She’d never forgive herself, if…if she lost you, too.”_

_He doesn’t reply, for a time._

_He’s so still, so silent, you’d almost think he’d hung up on you._

_“How can I?” he asks, so soft, trembling; there’s tears in his voice. “How am I supposed to stay put, knowing my daughter is in a hospital, alone, on the other side of the world? How am I supposed to forgive_ myself _, if anything happens to her?”_

_His words echo every question you’ve asked yourself, terrified; they resound in your head, echoing off your exhausted brain, until all you’re hearing is the words ‘how’ on repeat—and it’s not him you’re thinking about, but your own concerns, like how are you supposed to come back from this, how are you supposed to be okay alone, how do you possibly carry on knowing she’s hurt?_

_“I don’t know, sir,” you whisper. “But, I think I’d rather take the blame myself, than see her hurt any more.”_

_Sherman lets out a deep sigh, and there’s a rustle of movement on the other end. You think, maybe, he’s wiping his eyes. “You know, I always thought you weren’t good enough for her—a ‘broody bartender with a mysterious past,’ isn’t what every father dreams up for their little girl,” he lets out a low, humorless laugh, “but, I think I was wrong about you.”_

_You pause, wordless._

_“Laura’s always loved everyone, everything—the number of stray cats I had to chase out of the house, I—” he laughs again, more alive, nostalgia in his voice, “anyway, I thought she’d get herself hurt, opening her heart to the world like that. She’s always had so much love to give. I never thought she’d meet anyone who’d love her as much as she could love them. But…then you came along.”_

_You bite your lip, touched and torn apart by his words. He’s never been vocally negative about his opinions of you, not to your face, but you’ve received enough threats and pointed looks to understand the ‘not good enough’ he’d alluded to. But you’d loved Laura, and so you’d ignored his attitude, his words._

_You’d wanted his approval, but you’d never needed it—all you’d needed, all you ever need, is Laura’s._

_“I’m glad the two of you found each other,” he carries on, sincerity in his voice. “I hope you can forgive an old man, stuck in his ways, for wanting to protect his only daughter. But…I’m grateful you’re there for her, Carmilla. She deserves someone like you—someone who would give her the world, if she asked.”_

_“I would,” you reply, thick._

_“I know you would,” he replies, and lets out a quiet, lengthy sigh. “You’re right. I…I’ll wait, for as long as it takes. It’s what my baby girl would want.”_

_“Thank you, Mr. Hollis,” the relief that ebbs through your chest is palpable, and you relax back into the covers, the scent of Laura swelling around you. “For trusting me with her.”_

_“Take care of her.”_

_“Always.”_

* * *

Three days later finds you in your apartment, at Laura’s desktop (her password was too easy, honestly: _‘tennantismydoctor’_ , so obvious), combing through her files.

Her laptop was lost in the chaos, and it’s probably well beyond saving. But your girlfriend is thorough, for all her sloppy workstation (the cookie crumbs and half-empty grape sodas you can’t bring yourself to clean) implies the opposite, and she keeps her files backed up across multiple devices.

The files on the Corvae Corporation are pretty damning, you think, reading through Laura’s notes with a furrow on your brow. From what you piece together, from Laura’s mostly-finished article, the notes she’s left and the musings she’s made to you, you understand just why they would risk trying to hurt Laura.

Because, this? This is the stuff that drags down entire multi-national corporations, regardless of how much money they have.

Illegal arms deals, militia connections, drug smuggling, political racketeering, and a whole colorful collection of other things—Corvae has their claws in _everything_. Including, you note, a very large amount of money passing through the University of Silas, and substantial donations to Chair of the Board, Baron Vordenburg—where, coincidentally, in the five years they’ve been paying, there’s been more than two-dozen student disappearances.

Everything to put them away, it’s all there: meticulous notes made, theories and connections, jotted in the margins of interview transcripts. There’s documentation on meetings, names and comings-and-goings, the sort of things that shouldn’t be publicly available, and _definitely_ shouldn’t be taking place to begin with.

Most damning of all, there’s video _and_ audio files.

God bless the Age of Technology.

You’re filled with righteous indignation, fury, and determination, all in one. Because if Corvae—and you _know_ it was them—tried to take out your girlfriend, to keep her from exposing their off-brand evil activities, then, well.

Mother always said you were vindictive.

You’ll make _damn_ sure that this, their decision to come for _your_ girlfriend, will come back to haunt them for the rest of their lives—you want them to stare at the stone walls of their prison cells for the next decade and _know_ they shouldn’t have fucked with you, or your family.

Laura’s still logged in to the Independent’s page, and you don’t even stop to feel guilty about breaking into the website. With quick hands, you paste it—all of it—in. You smirk. Laura would understand.

You hit the publish button:

_ The Corvae Corporation: Deceit and Deception  
_ _By Laura Hollis_

You lean back in the chair, and smile—dark, edged—at the article on the screen; with all the visitor traffic from the attack, it won’t be just another small-time article, gone largely unnoticed.

Corvae dug their own grave, time to bury them in it.

Time for the world to know the truth Laura almost died for.

* * *

It’s hit the wider news world, you know, because there’s been ‘breaking news’ bulletins on every news channel and site you’ve checked, all featuring a very-familiar face. From SSN to the BBC, all over the world, there’s reports flooding in.

You check your Twitter feed, laughing like a maniac, as the @’s roll in. 

> **@BBC:** @SilasIndependent drops a massive bomb about the Corvae Corporation [link]
> 
> **@SNN:** Initial reports suggest the attack on @SilasIndependent was to prevent @Laura2theletter’s truth bomb [link]
> 
> **@CNN:** Styrian blast motivated by foul play. Corvae under investigation. [link]
> 
> **@SilasU:** Measures are being taken. We will await formal charges before moving forward with our investigation.

You’re certain that, if anyone had your new number, your phone would be ringing off the metaphorical hook.

As it stands, there are entirely too many people who have your address.

Almost an hour exactly after the article drops on the Independent’s main page, and there’s all sorts of noise coming from the street below. It’s common knowledge that Laura’s in the hospital—although the exact one has been kept out of news reports, probably to keep her safe—but you know (from experience) that nothing will stop reporters.

You are content just to watch them, slouched at the window by the fire escape. You’re dutifully ignoring the near-constant buzzing of someone ringing the bell below.

There’s a ray of sun coming through the window, warm against your skin, and you inhale soft, deep, close your eyes. You’re not settled, peaceful, not by any means. You’re still out of your mind with worry, with fear, with _Laura_. But…there’s coils of pleasure in you, almost primal satisfaction, at the turnabout.

Justice doesn’t come free, you think, but revenge sure is sweet.

In the way these things go, though, your satisfaction is short lived.

There’s a rapping near the window, and when you open your eyes you almost groan.

Of course, because reality hates you and there is _no god_ , the ensemble cast of Scooby Doo has suddenly decided to make your fire escape the scene of their newest mystery.

“What,” you crack the window, just a fraction, glaring, “are you doing here?”

LaFontaine, always the unofficial representative when there’s no Laura to shout her demands to the world, steps forward. “We _did_ try to call.”

“Hm. Suddenly, I’m relieved I lost my phone.”

“Man, these are absolutely filthy…” Perry’s already got a rag in hand—where does she even store these things?—and is wiping at one of the windows, humming under her breath.

You’re not often lost for words, but sometimes the sheer absurdity of the people Laura works with really does rob you of your breath—and, coincidentally, your faith in humanity. “What the _fu—”_

“Can we come in?”

You shake your head. “Absolutely _not_.”

“Great!”

_Damn it, Laura,_ you hiss to yourself, because there’s _no way_ she gave LaFontaine a key to your house, except—before you can stop them, LaFontaine’s twisted a key in the lock, and the door to the fire escape swings open, admitting an unwanted torrent of houseguests.

“I’m pretty sure this is home invasion,” you hiss, taking a step back, putting as much distance as you can between yourself and the invaders.

LaFontaine grins. “Not if your girlfriend gave me a key, ‘for emergencies’,” they reply. “Good luck fighting that one in court.”

You take a deep, steadying breath—it wouldn’t do to kill the ensemble cast of Annie, because Laura loves them, and you love her, and your sense of morality may be twisted but the thought of sad-pout is enough to deter you from murder in the first degree.

The thought is suddenly wiped from your mind when you notice a face, stepping in the door behind the usual crew. A very familiar face, in the burned-forever-in-your-mind kind of way.

“Dude, this place is _crazy awesome_!”

You blink, stunned. “Kirsch?”

“Hey!”

“What are you doing here, in my house?” You blink, then another person steps in behind him and you’re beginning to think that this is all an elaborate, cruel joke. “How did he get here? And—is that the Ginger Giant?”

Danny, in uniform because _of course she is_ , stands at the back of the pack. Her arms are crossed. She’s really mastered the whole aloof bodyguard look. Even with the impressive, yellow-green bruise on her chin. “Hey.”

“No, this is too much,” you shake your head. “I’m not—why are you _here_?”

Your arms cross, and you glare at Kirsch and Danny. “Still doesn’t explain why _you’re_ here.”

“I was on my lunch break, bringing D-Bear some food—”

“I was standing guard, downstairs,” Danny tilts her head at you, arms crossed. “Funnily enough, with all the crowds down there, and because Laura’s already been attacked _once_ , the Chief thought maybe somebody should stop a repeat performance.”

“—and I saw these dudes trying to get in, and I recognized Perry!”

Perry offers him a thin smile, obviously still shaken. “Yes, well. Kirsch, you were very…kind to me, after everything.”

“Anyway, so I convinced D-Bear to let them up, but you weren’t answering the buzzer, so—”

You snap, then. “So, you idiots decided to climb up _my_ fire escape, unwelcome, break into my _house_ —”

“Technically not breaking in!” LaF held up the key, taunting.

“You _break into_ my _house_ , uninvited,” you assert, glaring, “and decide, what? That it’s time to hug and sing songs, cry about our feelings? _Why are you here_?”

LaFontaine shrugs, yet again. “You published Laura’s article.”

You sniff, look away, pointed. “Did I?”

Laura’s desktop is still on, at the left side of the room. The open plan nature doesn’t leave you much room for hiding that. The Independent’s page is still open, you note—you’d wanted to watch the reader count tick up. Shit.

“Yes,” J.P. pipes up, and you’re almost _proud_ when he doesn’t back down as your glare settles over him, although he does flinch a little. “Once we realized that _someone_ had posted to the Independent’s page—”

Perry tunes in, then. “Which is totally a breach of security, and an invasion of—”

“I tracked the IP address that it came from,” J.P. interrupts, shrugging. “And, upon realizing it belonged to Laura—who is, most definitely, still in the hospital—and, once we realized _what_ was posted, well. It seemed prudent to come.”

“Laura’s our friend and, like it or not, so are you,” LaFontaine shrugs, open and earnest. “We wanted to see if you were alright. What happened—it’s a lot. And you wouldn’t pick up your phone. We weren’t sure you’d be here, but then we saw that article, and, well—here we are.”

Even Perry looks at you, pausing from her frantic dusting of a bookshelf. You don’t even _know_ where she got a duster from, because you’re certain you don’t have one of those. “We were worried.”

It’s awkward, looking between the three of them. They’re the butt of so many of your mean-spirited jokes and pranks, for all you try to downplay it around Laura. You only spend time around them because they’re Laura’s friends, co-workers. You don’t think you’ll ever willingly go out with them.

But they care about you, obviously—enough to storm up your fire escape, and break into your house.

Perry bites her lip, glances at the others, then continues. “We also thought…maybe, well…you had news about Laura?”

Ah, there it is.

You take a deep, seething breath. “You are lucky we’re only on the third floor.”

“Why?” she squeaks.

“Because when I _throw you off the fire escape—”_ you bite, stalking forward with a fearsome expression on your face, “—maybe you’ll have a chance of _surviving!”_

In an instant, Danny is in front of you, all six-foot of her—and you do not have the time or _need_ to put up with this shit, not in your own house. “Hey, hey, take it easy.”

“No, _you_ take it easy, Gigantor,” you bite. “God, the audacity! I’m actually _impressed._ You break into my house, you pretend you’re here for _me_ , but you’re only using me for information. God, you’re all such fucking _journalists_.”

Perry wilts, taking a step back. “Please, we didn’t intend to—”

“Oh no, you definitely _intended_ to, Easy A. At least have the decency to own up to it.”

Nobody says anything, in a moment that stretches out forever.

You’re about to make good on your threat, the police officer in your living room notwithstanding, when you suddenly realize that the chime you’re hearing in the background—it isn’t coming from the television.

It’s your phone—the new one, known only to two people.

You’re across the room in an instant, scrambling to seize it from Laura’s desk, where you’d left it.

There’s a number calling, one you don’t recognize.

It’s not Mattie, though, and that’s enough to make you slam the ‘accept’ button, anxiety welling in your chest.

“Miss Karnstein?”

You nod, even though they can’t see you, and ignore the eyes of the peanut gallery watching you. Suddenly, your fury is cold, far away. All you can think about is this, is what this call could mean. “Speaking.”

“This is Annalise, from Silas General. I’m calling about Laura Hollis.”

“Laura?” your voice comes out higher than you intend, and you catch the alarmed looks that the Scooby Gang toss you. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No, no! Quite the opposite,” there’s a smile in her tone. “She’s awake.”

You stumble, jerky, scrambling for your keys.

You shoulder your way between Annie and her stunt double, and make a break towards the door.

“I’m on my way.”

You don’t even bother locking the door as it swings shut behind you.

LaFontaine has a key, apparently, they can use it.

* * *

It’s late in the afternoon by the time you make it to the hospital, driving like a maniac on your motorcycle. When you’re all signed in, they give you a room number, and tell you that her doctor will meet you in the room—he’s already checking on her.

Her new room is on the eleventh floor, sunward facing. It’s a private suite (which, you’re entirely sure Mattie pulled strings to get her—you’d called her on the way, telling her the news, and she’d said evasively that she’d _“see what I can do”)._

As you wait on the long, lonely elevator ride up, you watch the cityscape through the glass-paneled side. It’s not quite sunset, but it’s too far away. It plays beautifully upon the strange mishmash of old-and-new buildings that make up the Styrian skyline.

Laura is awake for the first time—your heart beats erratically in your chest at the thought—and suddenly, it’s like the world has come alive, too.

Hope dares to fill your chest, as you trace the outline of an old church, the apex of the clocktower. You think, again, of Laura—of all the people you care about gathered together, of seeing her dressed in white, of watching her walk down the aisle.

The doors slide open, and it takes everything you have not to sprint. Instead, you force calm, measured steps, as you consider the ward doors.

_11-2. 11-4. 11-6._

You count them as you go, until you reach the end of the hall.

_11-8._

The door is shut when you arrive, but there’s a window into the room. It looks almost like a hotel, with an expansive window and a couch beneath it. There’s a curtain drawn around what must be the bed, obscuring your view, but there’s ripples of movement, like somebody’s moving around it.

Without a second thought, you push open the door.

“Laura?”

Suddenly, a head pops out from behind the curtain. It’s a female, but not the one you’re hoping to see. She’s got dark hair and a kind face, dressed in pale purple scrubs. “Oh, excuse me, but there’s an examination in progress.”

You ignore her, because you’ve always followed your own rules. “Laura?”

Another figure pops out from behind the curtain, and it is Dr. Chambers. He’s fixing his stethoscope around his neck, and tucking a pen into his coat pocket. He recognizes you, obviously, and waves the nurse away. “It’s quite alright, Shannon. We’re done here, anyway.”

There’s another sound, small, a muffled sigh.

“Laura,” you breathe, because you’d know that sleepy, soft noise anywhere.

The doctor grabs your arm, before you can round the corner and take in the sight of her. You want nothing more than to snap at him, but he’s done so much already, that when you glare there’s no real heat to it.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” he tells you, and there’s a chart in his hand, taken from the foot of the bed. “You already know her injuries, and there’s nothing new on that front. But, like we expected, her throat and lungs took a bit of a battering, and she’s having a bit of trouble breathing and speaking.”

You shake his arm away. “And?”

“She’ll make a recovery, eventually. But these things take time, she’s still very much injured, and will need to be here for a while longer,” he reads something else off the chart, and shakes his head, then looks at you with warm, understanding eyes. “She’s confused, and scared, and it’s very hard for her to communicate right now. But, I think she’ll benefit from some company. Just…try not to agitate her. She’s still very delicate, right now.”

You impatiently nod, eyes fixated on the curtain blocking your view—you want to do something childish, like reach out, tear it down. You _need_ to see her, the feeling so potent it’s almost primal. You _have_ to see her.

“Well, we’ll leave you be,” he says, catching your eye. “Please, take your time.”

He doesn’t need to tell you that.

You’re sure there’s a stagger in your step, an unsteady, desperate tilt. But you surge forward all at once, pushing past the nurse and the doctor, disregarding their exit. You seize the curtain tightly, slide it roughly back, and…

_Laura._

“Hey, creampuff,” you soften, “did you miss me?”

The bed is tilted up slightly, and she’s resting on a mound of pillows. There’s an oxygen mask around her face, still. There’s still stitches, cuts and bruises, but you expect those. What you’re real looking for, what you’re really desperate to see, is her eyes.

They’re chocolate-brown, doe-like, wide when they look at you—there’s traces of exhaustion, tiredness in them, but they’re awake and _alive_ when they look at you.

You see her lips move, beneath the mask, but the sound is muffled, barely there.

Still, you’d know the shape her lips make when they say your name any day.

At her side in an instant, your hand gravitates to hers. You tangle your fingers in hers, careful of the IV, and practically collapse into the conveniently placed chair. “God, you had me worried,” you breathe, reaching your free hand out to lightly, gently touch the side of her face. “Don’t you _ever_ do it again, you hear me?”

She’s mumbling something again, her other hand trying to come up to her face. It’s weak, shaky, pawing at herself. It takes you a moment to realize she’s trying to take off the mask.

“Here, cupcake,” you gently nudge her hand aside, and it falls, limp, to the bedspread. “Let me.”

The moment you have the mask off, pulled down to rest lightly at her neck, you realize she’s smiling at you. It’s dreamy, a little shaky, but it’s there. “Carm,” she croaks, and her voice is rough, the words almost impossible to force from her throat. “You’re here.”

“I told you smoking was bad for you,” you nudge her cheek softly, squeeze your fingers tighter around her own. Your eyes catch her own, and you smile for all you’re worth. “I’m here.”

“Hey, no,” there’s tears welling in her eyes, and you hate it, that—seeing Laura cry does unfair, terrible things to your heart. You reach out, swipe the tears away from her cheeks. “None of that, sweetness. Don’t cry.”

You’re sure your words aren’t very commanding, because you feel tears in your own eyes. God, how many tears have you cried for her? This beautiful, intelligent, kind girl. For her, the love of your life.

“I—love you,” she wheezes.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, all soft edges and softer words; you gather all the sweet, warm, loving things that dwell somewhere in your ribcage, hold them in your eyes, in your heart, so maybe she can see them. “More than you know.”

There’s so many words you can see struggling beneath Laura’s skin, in the flutter at her throat. She’s always been inclined to babbling—why use one word, when you can use a thousand; she’s a writer ( _“journalist, Carm,” she always says, with that bunched expression)_ , verboseness is in her veins.

Laura’s always fought for what she’s wanted, what she thinks she has to do, to air the words that need to be said. There’s never enough oxygen in a room for her, she’d go all day if you let her.

But, you know she’s in pain, struggling. You feel her fingers twitch in yours, the strain at her brow.

“Hey, shh,” you soothe her, smooth a hand over her face, tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t try to talk, sweetness. I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere, either. So, save your breath. Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”

She looks up at you, all brown eyes and big heart. “You’re…worth it,” she rasps. “Al…ways.”

You shake your head, despite the flutter you feel in your chest—your heart feels three sizes too big, like it’s about to burst from your chest, and _god,_ Laura’s always been too good, too pure for you.

“And so are you,” you lean over, always cautious, and press a kiss to her lips—it’s chaste, soft, and her lips are rough, dry, and you press feather-light for fear of hurting her more. “Now, go back to sleep. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

You know she wants to fight it, to fight you. But she can’t deny the truth of her body, the way her breath is coming out in wheezes, the fine tremor in the hand in yours. She’s squinting, each blink too slow, lingering.

So, rather than give her a chance to fight, you make an elective decision.

She glares at you, as you pull the oxygen mask back over her face. But you smile back, unrepentant.

“Go to bed, cutie. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And she does, very reluctantly, whining softly in protest, fall asleep.

* * *

Time comes and goes, but you remain by Laura’s bedside, a constant.

You’re not certain when visiting hours are, or when they end—though you know, by the sight of the stars in the night sky, that you’ve certainly outstayed them. You can’t find it in you to care, though. And, whether it’s sympathy or the power of your glare that did it, the nurses that drop in and out never make a fuss—one even brings you a blanket.

You just sit, quiet as the night, and watch her. Perhaps it’s a cliché, to say that poetry could be written about the beauty of her, the way the moonlight falls upon her face and the music of her heartbeat around you—but, then, your love of her is a cliché you will gladly affix your name to.

It’s uncomfortable, sitting tucked up in a hospital chair. But, when you rest your head on the bed beside Laura, your hand tangled with her lax, sleeping one, well…the discomfort is worth it, just to know she’s there, alive. The soft in-out of her breath, the gentle hiss of oxygen, is comforting—to hear her breathing, ever-present and continuous; not the terrified, gasping ones, from the call that plays in your head on repeat.

Eventually, you even manage some semblance of sleep, lulled by her presence at your side.

When you awaken again, there’s sunlight streaming through the window, shining in your eyes. It’s the dull, early morning sunlight—barely dawn, you realize. But, that isn’t what wakes you. It’s the sensation of a hand on your hair, playing on the side of your face, tickling your cheeks.

“Mm,” you sit up, slowly, rubbing the crick in your neck. “At least buy me dinner first, cupcake.”

Laura’s eyes sparkle when she looks at you, and she looks so much less tired. She’s got an adorable case of bedhead. “M-Morning,” she croaks, pulling the mask down.

You don’t tell her off, or make her put it back on, but you eye it pointedly—a look she ignores, smiling.

“And what a morning it is,” you say, propping an elbow on the bed, planting your head on your palm. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, cutie.”

Laura’s got a little more color in her face today, you realize, as a blush rises on her cheeks. “Carm,” she murmurs, voice cracking on the first syllable of your name; her breaths are still a little off, a little unsteady, and her voice is just as rough, but she looks less pained.

You glance up, at the bag hanging beside the bed, linked to Laura’s arm. Painkillers of some description, you realize. But she’s not drooling or bleary-eyed, so she’s not on the hard stuff.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you tell her, sincere, and you _don’t not_ choke a little on the words. “You—you scared me.”

Her expression melts into something guilty, haunted. “I d-didn’t—think,” she struggles to say the words, but you don’t push her. “It would…happen.”

“I know, sweetheart. But that’s just you. You like to think the best of everybody, like to pretend that all the big, bad people in this world won’t hurt anyone else—even when you _know_ better. That’s just who you are: stubborn, pig-headed, entirely too invested in your job, and with a moral compass set permanently on ‘righteous’,” you shrug, helpless, but soften your words with a smile. “You’re going to drive me to an early heart attack, Hollis. But, that’s what I get, I guess, for falling in love with an _idealist_. Headaches and hospital trips.”

She rolls her eyes at you, the familiar spark of spirit in her eye—she’s not this broken, fragile thing, no matter how much people knock her down, Laura’s a survivor, she’ll claw herself back to her feet and do it all again.

“Romantic,” she sighs.

You grin, unrepentant. “Only for you, sweetness.”

“M-My girlfriend, everybody,” she shakes her head at an imaginary audience—like she’s at home, talking to her computer, to the YouTube channel she runs in her spare time.

You make a face at her. “Save it for the interviews, babe.”

Her brow crinkles. “Interviews?”

“Well, hypothetically speaking, when a news headquarters known for troublemaking is _blown up_ prior to leaking a pretty damning investigation,” you give her a grin, Cheshire, “and the journalist responsible just so happens to _survive_ , and release the story anyway—well, that turns a few heads.”

Laura’s eyes widen, and you hear the spike in her heartrate over the monitors. “Y-You leaked…my story?”

“Hypothetically,” you shrug. “Somebody with access to your computer—which, side note, we need to talk about your password security—may have had something to do with it.

There are tears in her eyes, and a hoarse sound rips from her throat—somewhere between a sob and a laugh, you realize. “Y-You’re a, a—”

“Saint? Genius? Evil mastermind?”

“—an _idiot_ ,” there’s tear tracks down her cheeks, now, and she’s glaring at you with all the fire and fury you’ve come to expect from her—the girl who stomps her feet and points fingers when she doesn’t get her way.

“Ouch,” dramatic, you press a hand to your chest, but your tone is dry. “Those are scathing words, cutie. Truly hurtful. You’re breaking my heart.”

You think maybe you’ve actually upset her, when her face crumples further. But there’s still a fire in her eyes. “You could—could have _been hurt_ ,” she croaks, as much from the smoke inhalation as the emotions playing in her throat. “What if they—they came after you? After the office, I—I couldn’t wake up and have you, you…”

“Dead?” you offer, flat—and you love Laura, you do, but you’re far from the idiot in this relationship. “That’s my line, cupcake.”

She shakes her head, despite the tremor in her voice. “It’s…my _job_ —”

“It’s your job to take care of yourself, Laura,” you interrupt her, gesturing up and down her; from the cast-covered leg, propped up, and the scratches and cuts all over her, to the particularly dark bruising around her chest. “This? This should never have happened. I _told_ you this would happen. God, you’re going to get yourself killed. You _did_. I saw you die, Laura. Right there, in front of me. I listened to you suffocate. I watched them give you CPR. I didn’t think you’d make it—you almost _didn’t_.”

Laura takes a deep, shaking breath, her hand pulling away from yours. It curls, instead, into the blankets, white-knuckled. “It’s my _job_ , Carm,” she growls. “My risks, my choice— _mine_.”

“Sorry, cupcake, but you don’t get to pick and choose when the rules apply,” there’s the threads of an old, longstanding argument between you; it’s the wrong time, the wrong place, but Laura’s always been good at picking fights, and you’ve always been bad at letting them go. “I promised not to be your father, not to tell you what to do or how to live—even when I really, _really_ should. But you can’t be mine, either. It’s a two-way street.”

“I—I’m not…”

“You are. Don’t kid yourself,” you sneer. “God, Laura. Just—I wish you’d just stop and worry about yourself, just for once. Think about the people that love you. Stop trying to throw yourself in front of every bus, because you’re not always going to walk away from it, okay? One day—and maybe it wasn’t this time, or next time, but _eventually_ —you’re not going to be able to get back up. And me? I’ll…I’ll be alone, picking up the pieces.”

She opens her mouth, brow furrowed. “Carm—”

“Just,” you sigh, deep and angry, and more than a little bitter. “Save it, alright?”

You love Laura, you do, more than you’ll ever be able to put into words. But, no matter how much you love someone, you can’t always overlook the bad parts of them; love isn’t always blind, sometimes, love is all too aware.

There are so many parts to Laura, good and bad, and sometimes being with her is like being with a hurricane: destructive, world-altering, and yet when you step close to her, calm, quiet, peaceful. It’s all a matter of distance, perspective.

Then, because the universe _hates_ you, the Scooby Squad picks that moment to roll in.

“ _Hello_ —oh, bad time?”

You scowl. “ _What_?”

LaFontaine at least has the decency to wince, looking between your decidedly angry expression and Laura’s frown. “Woah, uh, sorry. We—”

“Guys!” Laura’s face shifts abruptly, into something happier, brighter. “Y-You’re here! You’re…okay.”

They perk up. “Hey, Hollis.”

Perry’s delight is obvious, and there’s a container tucked into her arms—she brought _fucking_ brownies, because of course she did.

You growl, low and through your teeth.

There’s so many things between the two of you, things that need to be aired, talked about. But this isn’t the time, or the place, to do it. Laura’s still hurt—you both are. It’s too soon, and you don’t want to make things worse. If there’s anything you’re good at, it’s making a bad situation worse—your supernatural talent, you figure.

You stand, abruptly, and move towards the exit.

Perry and LaFontaine scramble to step out of your way, and you shoulder J.P. aside with deliberate roughness—you feel a vindictive sense of pleasure when he bangs into the doorway with a yelp.

“Carm?” Laura whispers, low.

You pause, briefly, and glare at the ceiling. You don’t turn back.

“I’ll be back,” you say to the tiles. “Have fun catching up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the chapter count is extended yet again. Originally, this was going to be a 10k+ superchapter, but then I hit what felt like a natural break in the story, and I thought it best to cut off there. This chapter should have been posted yesterday, but due to poor time management skills (a 3000 word essay I had to do in the middle of writing) and an unexpected outing (watched Wonder Woman, it was awesome), it's a little late. Still, I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter, hopefully, should be the end of everything. Although, this was originally going to be a twoshot, so what do I know?


	4. exhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is slow, boring, but friends and family make all the difference.

It’s morning by the time you return, and visiting hours have only just begun. It’s a little after breakfast time when you step into Laura’s room, and she’s awake, picking absently at a tray—all her food is liquid, probably to avoid hurting her throat more, but it doesn’t look like she’s touched any of it.

Laura looks up when you step inside, and her face brightens slightly. “Carm, you’re back,” she says, and though there’s still roughness to her words, they aren’t half-stuttered or choked.

You shrug, the backpack you’ve brought with you bobbing. “Hey, cutie.”

Rather than sitting at her bedside, you slink over to the sofa.

Sprawling across the leather, feet kicked over the arm, you dig through the bag. It’s full of things from the apartment, things you figured she might like—deodorant, toothpaste, her tablet. You don’t hand her anything, though. Instead, you fish out a copy of Camus’ _The Myth of Sisyphus_.

It feels appropriate, somehow, because sometimes being with Laura feels rather like endlessly rolling a boulder up a hill—two steps forward, three steps back.

In your peripheral, you spot the way her face falls. For the briefest of moments, you consider going to her bedside instead, holding her hand, doing all the supportive, healthy couple things you _know_ you should do—but, well, you’re angry, and Mother always encouraged holding grudges.  

“Where did you go?”

You don’t even glance up at her, just quietly turn the page. “Out.”

“Carm,” she sighs, tired. “Please.”

“I went to the bar, picked up a shift,” you answer, flat. “Rory never showed up. They needed the help.”

And they had.

Friday night, in a student town, is always a scramble—lines are practically out the door, there’s too many idiots who can’t handle their alcohol, and they always need more bartenders. It’s loud and rowdy and you _hate_ the crowds, but the job is easy and the tips are fair. The company is bearable, though, annoying customers aside.

But that’s not why you went.

You went for the noise, for the rush—to keep your hands and mind busy, to contain the raging, roiling things bubbling in your chest. You’d drowned your fury, sorrow, outrage, in your work. Just, for a moment, you’d wanted to forget—the explosion, the sound of Laura’s fading breaths, the hospital lights, the argument you’ve had a million times.

Nobody had said anything when you’d shown up, leather-clad and scowling, and hopped behind the bar. Your manager had taken one look at your face and shrugged. They understood. Or, more importantly, they knew not to ask.

Laura is looking at you, brows scrunched, lips downturned. “I was wondering when you would come back,” and by the tone of it, it sounds more like _“I was wondering_ if _you would come back.”_

“I’d have called,” you shrug, and the words that follow are deliberately hurtful, come from the spiteful part of you, “but grabbing your phone was kind of the last thing on my mind when we carted you to the hospital.”

Hurt blossoms over her face, and you scour the page intently to put the expression out of your mind. You don’t feel guilty. You _won’t_. Laura’s in the hospital, she’s hurt, but it’s her own stupidity that got her into this situation, she’d ignored all the warnings, your worries, and—you’re bitter, sue you.

“Oh,” Laura absently pushes at the food on her tray, then sighs, dropping the spoon.

You just turn the page, silent.

“LaF told me about the others, Betty and Sarah Jane,” Laura says, eventually—there’s something thick in her voice, choked, that has nothing to do with her injuries. “They’re here, in the hospital. They—they made it out.”

You should feel bad, probably, that you hadn’t known that. Hadn’t cared. But Laura’s condition had taken priority, taken over everything, even in the days you spent combing the news, and you’d only known enough to know that there had been ‘no confirmed deaths’.

You take her in, eyes straying from Camus’ work.

There are very real tears in her eyes, a quiver in her lip. She’s struggling to hold it in, her fists clenching bone-white, her teeth catching her lip. “I…couldn’t have lived with myself, if they hadn’t made it out. I wouldn’t have wanted to.”

Her words hit you like a lance, and you recoil, hiss.

“Don’t.”

Her eyes shift from the window at your words, tight, angry.

“It’s my fault,” she says, at length, roughly scrubbing the tears away from her face with a wrist—wincing when she brushes a little too hard on one of her cuts. “All of this, the paper, the…the _bomb_. They had nothing to do with the investigation. They didn’t even _know_ —”

Laura’s voice breaks, and you swallow hard, tight, to keep the angry creature revolting in your chest from clawing its way out.

“They would have _died_ , for me. For my story. Betty writes about local events, and Sarah Jane covers _sports_ , and—they didn’t have anything to do with any of it, Carm. They didn’t know—” Laura cuts herself off, breath edging on something hysterical. “And it almost got them killed. _I_ almost got them killed. And I couldn’t live with myself, if they had—if I had walked away, and hadn’t. How _could_ I? When it should have been me.”

Your hand curls tight enough around the cover of your book, you feel the imprint of the spine biting into your fingers. “Don’t,” you bite, again, strained. “Don’t you _dare_ talk like that.”

“Carm…”

“Did you _want_ to die, Laura?”

She shakes her head, vehement. “No, I—”

“Then don’t you even _dare_ ,” you hiss, “pretend that it would have been any better, any more _right_ , for you to have died. Don’t you _dare_ pretend your life means nothing. Like you can just—just _die_ , on some righteous crusade for truth, and I’m going to be okay with it?”

Laura winces, a full-body thing. “I didn’t mean—”

“I listened to you die, Laura. I listened to you stop breathing. I listened to them pull your _body_ out. And then I had to watch them give you CPR. It didn’t work, you know. You almost—you barely made it. I watched you die, Laura. And, if they hadn’t brought you back, I…I would have had to go on living, without you. With that in my head.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath. “So, don’t. Don’t pretend your life doesn’t mean anything, that it means less,” you say, heart wrenching in your chest. “Because it means _everything_ to me.”

The silence lingers between the two of you, in the wake of that statement.

Laura’s eyes are wide, and she’s worrying her lip between her teeth again. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to find something to say. But, each time she tries, nothing comes out. She looks frozen, still. You’ve never seen her struggle so hard for words before.

You bury your head back into your book, then, just to cover the raw feeling in your chest—the sincerity in your words aches, and the memory of her broken, battered, breathless body fills the back of your eyelids every time you blink.

Seconds, minutes, hours. You’re not sure how long the moment, heavy, strained, settles for. It feels like forever, extending beyond the scope of comprehension.

The thread of tension is broken, finally, by Laura’s voice.

“I’m sorry.”

You look up, over the edge of your book, silent.

“I’m sorry,” Laura repeats, and her eyes avert, just for a moment, a flash of pain in them. “I didn’t mean it like that, like…like it wouldn’t hurt you. You know that I’d never want that. I didn’t want _any_ of this, Carm. I just wanted to do my job, to make the world a better place. I never imagined somebody could, _would_ do this. And I just—it scares me, okay? I’m _terrified_. It’s terrifying. And if you think I don’t relive it in my head _every_ moment, then you’re wrong.”

Laura shakes her head, then, resolution burning in her eyes. “And it’s even scarier imagining I could have been responsible for someone _dying_ , that my work could have done that. I couldn’t have forgiven myself, if someone was hurt, but,” she takes a breath, looking to the ceiling tiles for encouragement, then labors on. “But, everyone’s okay. I’m sore, I’m tired, and I feel like these are _definitely_ not enough painkillers, but _I’m_ okay. I’m alive, Carm. And…that story, it _will_ make a difference.”

God, you love her, but sometimes you just want to shake her—like it will exorcise the stupid, self-sacrificing streak out of her.

“You _almost died_ for this story. I _told_ you this would happen. But you didn’t listen, you just carried on, oblivious, until you almost _died,_ ” you grind out. “And that…that scares the shit out of me, Laura. Your job isn’t worth your life.”

“I’m sorry,” Laura says again, but there’s no apology in her tone. “I know you hate my job, and you hate what I do, and all the risks, but—it’s who I am, Carm. If I gave up on it, on the truth, and let them intimidate me, keep me quiet…I just—I wouldn’t be me.”

And here it is, the argument you’ve been waiting to have. It’s the same one you’ve always had, probably always will. You’re both nothing if not stubborn.

“This has always been me,” she continues, oblivious to the jumble of thoughts, feelings, warring in the back of your mind; her eyes are sad, resigned, but resolute. “And I’m sorry for making you worry, and for—for everything that happened. It’s not what I wanted. God, how could it be? But, I’m not sorry for _why_. And…if you can’t accept that, then—then…”

The huff that leaves you is terse, frustrated.

You snap your book shut, toss it blindly onto the sofa, and stand.

“ _You_ —”

Laura shrinks back in her bed, her fingers tangled tight in her blankets, when you stand over her—the glare on your face is fearsome, intimidating, and your tone is sharp.

“You are hardheaded, self-righteous, insufferably curious, and _criminally_ negligent about your own safety. Not to mention, you’re so painfully idealistic it’s nauseating—like, it’d be cute, if it weren’t so sickening. You are naïve and childish and don’t understand a _thing_ about the world.”

Laura’s face falls, crumbles with hurt, and she opens her mouth.

 _“—But_ ,” you interrupt her before she starts, shaking your head—when you sigh, it’s like the lovestruck fool you are, and all the fire, the fury, drains away from you. “That’s what made me fall in love with you, for whatever reason. I guess I can’t be mad about it now. It’s not like I _didn’t_ know you were blatantly, suicidally dedicated to doing the right thing. I knew that the day we met.”

She’s looking at you, cautiously bright. “Carm…”

“So, what I’m trying to say is, as much as it kills me,” you take a deep, fortifying breath, fighting against the parts of you that want to deny the words you’re about to say, “is that I…won’t stand in your way. Even if I think what you’re doing is crazy, overly optimistic and almost _entirely_ certain to get you really, actually killed. Because I’m crazy for you, Laura—certifiably so.”

“My girlfriend, the romantic,” Laura whispers, words soft, tenuous. She reaches out for your hand. After a moment, you let it fall into hers. She twines her fingers with yours, tugging you close for a chaste, loving kiss. “I love you too, Carm. With every piece of me.”

“I just wish you’d be more careful,” you murmur when you break apart, the words low, tentative—they’re not intended to start a fight, you just need her to know. “I…can’t lose you, Laura. It—seeing that, you can’t even imagine. When I thought I’d lost you, it was like, like…”

She smiles, sorrow in every inch. “Like somebody had torn a hole in you?”

“Like somebody had stolen all the oxygen in the room,” you say, and you see the flash of understanding, of suffering, mirrored in her eyes. “I couldn’t _breathe_ without you, Laura. You’re…my everything.”

“How about a compromise,” Laura proposes, her fingers curling tight over yours, palm warm. “I’ll _try_ to be a little more careful, I promise. But _you_ have to promise me that, whatever happens, you accept that it’s my job—that this is _me_ , this is who I am.”

Heaven, help you.

“Six months.”

She tilts her head, waits.

“Six months,” you reiterate. “You’re going to recover. We’re going to go home. You’re going to take some vacation time—real, actual vacation time, a few weeks at least—and we’re going to go on a trip. We’re going to forget about all of this, and we’re going to go to the beach, and sleep in hotels, and drink all the mimosas we can stomach. And then, when we get home, I want six months. Six months of rest, before you provoke someone else.”

“Carm—”

“Six months. Take it or leave it, sweetness,” you grin, and your next words are only half a joke. “I don’t think my heart could take another hospital stay anytime soon.”

She sighs, but squeezes your fingers, pressing a kiss to your joint hands. “I think I can handle that.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” you smirk.

She pulls you down then, kisses you deeper, soft and languid. When she finally pulls away from you, you both sigh, foreheads braced together.

“I love you, Carm.”

“I love you too, cupcake.”

Laura’s hands find your cheeks, after a long moment, pulling you gently back. Her chocolate-colored eyes are warm, shining. You’d live in that moment forever, if you could—wrapped in the scent of her, the feel of her tingling on your lips.

But there’s something in her eyes, a question—you’d recognize that look any day.

“What is it?”

She’s looking at you anew, like you’re a puzzle and she’s finally put together the pieces. “You were that worried?”

You scowl. “Is that so surprising?”

“No, no, of course not,” she shakes her head, vehement. “I just—LaF told me what happened, about what you were like in the waiting room, and how you visited me…”

“LaFontaine needs to learn to keep their mouth shut,” you growl, vowing under your breath that you’re really going to consider that first degree murder charge one day. “Before I shut it _for_ them.”

The way she looks at you, it’s like she’s seeing something beautiful, eye-catching. She looks at you like you’re a spectacle, like you’re all that’s important in the universe. It’s scary to see somebody look at you like that, so blindly loving and trusting. But you love Laura, and instead, your heart only swells.

“I think it’s nice, that you care that much,” she whispers, thumbing the side of your face, the pad of it soft against your skin. “You’re my everything, Carm. And I…without you, I don’t know what I’d be.”

“Malnourished? Vitamin deficient?” You ask, just to break the sappy moment—you’re Carmilla Karnstein, and no matter how much you love her, there’s only so much mush you can take. Then, you give her a _look_. “Impossibly horny?”

Her face screws up. “Carm, ew, no.”

“Ew, huh?” You lean close, hovering with your lips barely brushing her earlobe, smirking. “That’s—not—very—nice,” you punctuate each word with a hot, lingering kiss, slowly moving down her jaw, until you end up leering into her eyes, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, “is it?”

She shudders, an impossible flush coming across her cheeks. “ _Carm_ ,” she says, but there’s no edge to her tone, only a whine that borders on a moan.

Your smirk only widens. “What’s that you said, cupcake? ‘Ew’?”

“Just—just, shut your face,” she grumbles, adorably red, one of her arms wrapping around the back of your neck, “and _kiss me_.”

“As you wish, princess,” you laugh, sealing your lips over hers.

This kiss isn’t chaste, or affectionate. You press into her, as hard as you dare, pressing a palm into the pillows behind her head. You’re careful not to settle your weight across her fractured ribs, but you lean over her, your free hand softly stroking her side.

Your tongue tangles with her own, and she’s pulling ever so slightly at your hair, and it’s _delicious_.

But, because—and this can never be repeated enough—the universe hates you, the moment is shattered.

“Oh!”

You break away from Laura, turning to see a nurse standing at the door, eyes wide and a hand pressed to her mouth.

“Excuse me,” the nurse stutters. “I didn’t mean to—I’ll leave you ladies alone.”

She’s gone, scurrying out before either of you can say anything. You watch her back retreat down the hall through the window.

“Oh my god,” Laura covers her face with her hands, red as a fire engine. “ _Carmilla_.”

You grin, unrepentant, and pinch her cheek. “I repeat— _impossibly_ horny.”

* * *

 

Time passes a lot quicker, now that Laura’s awake.

Whenever you’re not at work, you sit with her in the hospital room, curled on the couch or in the chair. Your days a full of listening to her talk, breathe, sleep. You don’t go home, except to shower or change. You spend your nights curled in her room, at her bedside.

It’s not the same as the quiet days you sometimes spend together, tucked close at home, her head in the dip of your shoulder and a world of love in her eyes, but—it’s nice.

It would be nicer, however, if she’d let you bar the door like you’d asked.

Because, as much as you love Laura, her choice in friends leaves something to be desired. And, with no offices or work to speak of, they _never leave_.

“LaF!”

You don’t look up when Laura squeaks out a greeting, pretending to be engrossed in the television—Family Feud is an awful, terrible show, but there are spots of humor between the bleak, soul-crushing assertions of the general public’s stupidity. 

“Holy Hufflepuff, Hollis,” LaFontaine quips, pointing at the new, more permanent addition to Laura’s leg. “Sweet cast.”

Laura’s toes wiggle lightly in the corner of your eye, and you reach out a hand without a second thought, keeping her from moving to show off the bright, blazing yellow cast. The painkillers keep her at a low three on the ‘ouch’ scale, most of the time, but she whines every time she tries to move it, and you know it’s still hurting.

“It matches her sunny disposition,” you say, bland.

Laura is making a face at you, you can feel it. But you keep your eyes fixed on Steve Harvey, steadfastly ignoring her.

“Wanna sign it?”

LaFontaine’s face, in your peripheral vision, brightens. “Can I?”

You roll your eyes. “Honestly, you really are children.”

Laura’s definitely scrunching her face at you, now. You’d be able to feel the force of her displeasure to the grave, you’re certain. You’ve got a supernatural awareness of Laura’s pouty face.

“Hey, only child of a massively overprotective single dad!” Laura grumbles, expression adorably pinched. “I’ve never had a cast before. Dad used to make me wear knee and elbow pads just to take out the recycling…”

It never fails to amuse you, the sheer difference in your upbringing. You’d been born to a psychotic, callous, careless woman, no father to speak of. You’d lived blind to the idea of things like ‘affection’ and ‘protective instinct’. It hasn’t been until you’d met Laura, with her homemade bear spray and ‘weekly health updates’, that you’d understood what a parent _could_ be (although Papa Hollis was insane, he also clearly adored Laura).

“Your father is crazy, creampuff,” you retort—because he is. “But, I think I understand where he’s coming from. I’ve never met someone with such an alarming lack of self-preservation skills.”

“Rude,” Laura huffs.

LaFontaine pulls a marker from their bag, grinning. “Hate to break it to you, Laur. Your Dad’s totally nuts, but your girlfriend isn’t wrong,” they agree, leaning over the bed. “Now, where do I sign?”

You busy yourself with the television again, ignoring the chortling idiots at Laura’s bedside. Stretched out in the chair opposite Laura’s bed, arms crossed over your chest. However, you can’t help but glance at them every now and again—especially when you spot LaF doodling, little microbes and atoms with cartoon faces.

And Laura is leaning as far forward as she can, squinting at what they’re drawing, delight on her face.

“Children,” you reassert, ignoring the way your heart jumps at Laura’s smile.

Of course, it’s lost when Laura scowls at you, poking her tongue out.

You strike without a second thought, catching it between your fingertips. “Teasing isn’t cute, creampuff,” you purr, smirking as she squeaks. “Don’t flash it, if you’re not prepared to use it.”

She sucks her tongue back in with a choke, face flame-red. “ _Carm_ ,” she hisses.

LaFontaine glances between the two of you, eyebrows high. “Should I leave you alone, or…?”

“Yes, please do.”

Laura sputters, waving her arms frantically. “No, LaF, don’t listen to her, she’s—” she glances at you, faltering at the very deliberate leer you’re giving her, and then shakes her head. “Carm’s just being, well, her. Useless, crazy, sexy, girlfriend…” she mutters the second half, low.

You tilt your head at her, eyes narrow. “Useless, hm? That’s not what you normally say, sweetness—or am I interpreting ‘ _yes, so good, don’t stop’_ wrong?”

“Woah, hello, too much information,” LaFontaine recoils, dropping the marker to the bed. They glance towards the door, perhaps considering making an exit—which, you would very much appreciate.

Mortification rolls off Laura in waves, and she reaches behind herself, tears the familiar yellow pillow out from behind her back and blindly throws. _“Carmilla!”_

You grin at her, sharp and predatory, even as the pillow hits your face. “Sorry, sweetheart,” your tone is entirely too innocent, as you wag the pillow at her, “but the only pillow princess here is you.”

LaFontaine chokes, this time, shaking their head. “Too much, Hollis. Just—there are some theories even _I_ don’t want to confirm.”

“Just…if there’s a God, smite me. I want to be smote,” Laura looks pleadingly up at the tiled ceiling, as if magical lightning bolts are going to shoot out and strike her down. There’s clear embarrassment on her features, and you’ve never seen her so red, which is an achievement. “Zeus? Hades? Anyone? I volunteer as tribute.”

“You’re pouting again, cutie,” you nudge her. “It’s adorable.”

Laura ignores you, her eyes very deliberately fixated on LaFontaine. Her mouth flattens, but she can’t fully erase the pout. She, rather determinedly, leans away from you. Apparently, she’s had enough of your sex life show-and-tell.

You sigh, roll your eyes.

“Hey, Frankenstein, gimme.”

LaFontaine wordlessly passes you their marker, head tilting as you lean forward, reaching out for Laura’s cast.

You feel Laura’s eyes settle on you.

You uncap the marker, shaking your head—you’ve never signed a cast before, you don’t even know what to write, and you’re not as artistically inclined as LaFontaine.

But, with the weight of Laura’s smile in the corner of your eye, you sign it.

“There,” you say. “Happy?”

She smiles brightly, warmly, at you.

It lasts, of course, until LaFontaine’s laugh.

“Seriously?” Laura shoves your shoulder, cheeks hot, as she hunches to read what you wrote. “Carm, I have to wear this for _weeks_!”

“Sorry, but I don’t like the way the nurses look at you,” you defend, re-capping the marker with an entirely-too-innocent shrug. “Just a friendly reminder, cutie.”

You tap the words— _Property of Carmilla Karnstein_ —with an unrepentant grin.

Laura just groans.

* * *

 

Later in the week finds your sister making her first official visit since the waiting room. She’s been in Styria this whole time, working from one of your mother’s old offices, but Mattie’s been indisposed with work. Despite sending well-wishes and phone calls, she hasn’t been able to make time until now.

“Thoughts?”

You stare, bland, over the bouquet. “It’s atrocious.”

Mattie’s lip quirks behind the bundle of flowers—there’s more than a dozen sunflowers, paired with pink tulips, and roped together with a strip of golden ribbon. The vase they’re set in is a similar shade of gold, and probably hideously expensive, knowing your sister. It’s entirely too cheerful and upbeat for you, so bright you almost want to wince against the visual assault.

You roll your eyes. “She’ll love them.”

Pleasure breaks across Mattie’s face. “Excellent, I was afraid they would be too much. But, then I remembered the intended recipient. Sunflowers for the sunshine girl, hm?”

“Cute.”

“I prefer ‘gorgeous’ or ‘exceptional’,” she purrs, smirking. “Now, shall we?”

You laugh, and lead her down the familiar path to Laura’s room.

Laura is sitting up in bed, awake, when the two of you step inside. There’s a table across the bed with a laptop on it—which is interesting, because you know hers was lost in the blast—and she’s squinting seriously at the screen, brow scrunched. It’s her concentration face, her ‘work’ face.

You spot the atom and microbe stickers on the front, and roll your eyes.

LaFontaine, of course.

“You’re _supposed_ to be _resting_ ,” you sigh.

She jumps, eyes wide, and slams the laptop shut. “Oh! Heeey, Carm.”

You glare at her, arms crossing. “ _Laura.”_

Laura’s eyes slip to the side, averting like the kid caught in the cookie jar. But, when she spots your sister, she brightens—now, with all their fighting out of the way, it’s _weird_ how friendly the two of them are (endearing, because you love them both, and want them to get along, but still very, very weird).

“Mattie!” Laura’s eyes light up, and you know she’s spotted the bouquet. She waves you both in, making grabby hands at the flowers. “Are those for me?”

Your sister steps around you, an amused smirk on her face. “A special order, for my sister-to-be.”

A flush breaks out over Laura’s face, but her smile is simply dazzling. “I—that’s…thank you,” she settles on, suddenly shy, accepting the flowers from Mattie’s hands. “They’re beautiful.”

You don’t point out the obvious—the way you’ve both been dancing around the idea of engagement, no words exchanged. Of all the things that have come up in the time Laura’s been in the hospital—a full week, now—it’s the one thing you haven’t talked about.

You’re not sure if she remembers your proposal, and you’re kind of scared to ask. You want her, you want your day in white, and you want to be able to call her your _wife_. But you’re terrified that, without the idea of impending death, her answer may have changed.

You know your sister, who’s got the observational skills of a hawk, doesn’t miss it. She slips you a look, piercing. You pointedly look away—a mistake, because that only makes Mattie’s eyebrow raise.

You’re relieved, however, when Mattie doesn’t say anything. She lets Laura take the flowers, settling in a chair by her bedside. “It’s good to see you, dearest. It’s been too long. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”

There’s a bedside table to Laura’s left, and a draw where she’s got all the stuff you’ve brought her—half of your apartment, it feels like. On top of it, though, there’s a variety of gifts: all manner of chocolates, cards and gift baskets. After taking a deep inhale of them, Laura leans over, placing the flowers on the table.

“It’s okay, you’d probably just have been bored anyway. There’s not a lot to do here—y’know, bedbound and all that,” she gestures to her leg, then around the room, which doesn’t really have anything in the way of entertainment, except a TV. “I’ve mostly been sleeping, and playing board games. I trounced Carm at a game of Scrabble earlier, it was awesome.”

“Sorry to break it to you, cupcake, but I let you win,” you sniff. “That was a pity victory.”

Laura makes a face at you. “I won, fair and square. Don’t be a sore loser, grumpy face.”

You scowl at her. “I _am not_ a sore loser.”

“Oh, you _so_ are,” Laura looks at Mattie, rolling her eyes. “She’s the worst at board games. Last time we played Monopoly, she got so mad at the luxury tax, she tried to rob the bank.”

You scoff. “I _succeeded._ ”

“That’s only because J.P. was too scared of you to fight back,” Laura grumbles. “ _And_ it’s cheating.”

“Is there are rule against it?”

“No,” she huffs, “but it’s against the _spirit_.”

“She’s a rebellious little monster, darling,” Mattie smirks, and you’re not oblivious to the double-meaning in her words. “Always has been.”

You smile, all teeth and sharp edges. “She’s not wrong, cupcake.”

"Right, well, unless you’re going to ‘grr argh’ me up some cookies, then I don’t want to see any rebellion going on in this hospital room,” Laura huffs. “This is a ‘no-rebellion’ zone.”

“Oh, sorry cutie,” you flash her predatory look, “but what if I’m feeling a little _monstrous_ today?”

Mattie rolls her eyes, waving a hand at both of you. “As sickeningly sweet as your flirtations are, I didn’t come to watch the two of you engage in foreplay,” Laura chokes, cheeks reddening, under Mattie’s pointed look. “I came to see _you_.”

Laura throws you a glare, before her eyes slip back to Mattie. “Right, you came to see _me_ ,” Laura says the words like she doesn’t quite believe them, a strange lilt to her tone. Then, she catches herself, eyes widening. “Which, by the way, I’m totally grateful for! I mean, I know you’re probably busy with, well, running a multi-million-dollar enterprise and being all super powerful and important and stuff. So, thank…you? For coming, I mean. You totally didn’t have to. And, oh, the flowers, I—”

“Breathe, darling,” Mattie soothes, then smirks. “Good to know that, if nothing else, your lung capacity certainly hasn’t suffered.”

Laura flushes. “Sorry…my brain is connected directly to my mouth, sometimes.”

“Oh, don’t apologize. If anything, I consider your return to babbling a blessing, a sign that you’re well on your way to recovery,” Mattie drawls, leaning her chin on an upturned palm. “It’s a marked improvement on unconsciousness, at any rate. And you, dearest sister, are looking all the better for it.”

You flash back to how numb, how lost you’d been—ripped open and bared to Mattie, weaker than you’d ever been, than she’s ever seen you. It’s embarrassing, in a way, because Mattie may be your sister but she was also raised by your mother, and open weakness is something your mother never abided.

“It’s been a long week,” you reply, eyes flickering away. “For all of us.”

Laura glances between the two of you, her fingers toying with the sheets. “A crazy week,” she agrees, a flash of something you can’t place in her eyes.

“A crazy week, indeed,” Mattie concurs, lip quirking. “And for the Corvae Corporation, too. Or, so the news will have you believe.”

Laura’s head bobs upwards, eagerly fixing on Mattie. “Corvae?”

“That investigation of yours made quite the fuss,” Mattie says, crossing her arms. “It was quite the thing, darling. Very… _informative_. Quite the mess for Corvae. I’m impressed, honestly. It’s almost understandable why they would go to such lengths to silence you. Your aptitude for rooting out misdeeds is quite remarkable.”

"So, it worked?” she breathes. “They—the article, they believed it?”

Mattie flashes a smirk. “The CEO and much of the company’s staff have been detained, pending further investigation. But, if rumors prove true, they won’t be seeing daylight for a _long_ time.”

Relief slips over Laura’s face, as she slumps backwards into her cushions. Her eyes fixate on the ceiling, away from both of you, blinking rapidly. Your heart breaks a little when you see her lip quiver. “Good, that’s…that’s good.”

You reach out, without a second thought, brushing the tears away from her cheeks. “My intrepid, heroic little journalist-who-could,” you say, gently thumbing the side of her face. “You did good, sunshine.”

She smiles at you, then, soft and unrestrained, and you read all the love in the world in that simple look. Her hand reaches up, catches your own. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you nudge her. “And now, so does the world.”

Laura brightens. “They’re really under investigation?”

“The Corvae Corporation is ruined,” Mattie smirks, the pleasure in her voice obvious—Morgan Enterprises has always been at odds with Corvae, despite their shared…interests. “Their stocks have plummeted, their accounts are frozen, and they’re in shambles. You’ve ruined them, dear girl.”

“The ruined themselves, when they decided that money was more important than morals,” Laura’s eyes blaze, determination, ferocity in them—the same look you’ve seen her wear as she talks about ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. “I just helped bring them down quicker.”

"You truly are a fiery, driven, rebellious little upstart,” Mattie cackles, glancing between you both with a supremely amused look in her eyes. “I take back what I said when we met. You _are_ perfect for each other.”

Mattie’s approval of your relationship is only a recent thing, the product of the last few dinners together. It’s nice to see, warms you from the inside out. Because you’d hoped, but you’d never imagined you’d see them here together, like this, smiling and chatting, without any veiled threats or insults.

You remember, even four months ago, that it was practically hell to have them be in the same room. Mattie had never failed to snipe at your girlfriend, and Laura (a spitfire, for all her sweetness) had never failed to rise to the bait.

“We love each other,” Laura says, slipping you a small, secret smile. “There’s nothing more perfect than that.”

You smile back, wordless, all the things you feel in your eyes.

“Ah, young love,” Mattie drawls. “It’s so adorable, I could just _gag_.”

You roll your eyes at her, open your mouth to retort, but there’s a chime before you can.

Mattie pauses, frowning down at her phone screen for a moment. “Responsibility calls,” she says, tucking her phone back into her purse. “I’m needed elsewhere.”

Laura looks like she doesn’t know whether to be sad or relieved—a feeling that, when it comes to your sister, you can appreciate. “Oh, okay. Well, thanks for coming, Mattie. It was good to see you.”

Mattie leans forward, her hand brushing carefully over Laura’s arm, the ghost of a squeeze. “Take care, dearest, and do try to avoid a repeat performance,” she says, standing. “As fond as I am of you, I’ll throttle you myself if you dare die before I finish planning the wedding.”

Laura inhales sharply, breath hitching.

It’s your turn to choke.

And, because Mattie is Mattie, she breezes out of the room with her head held high and the low ghost of a cackle lingering behind her.

You stare blankly after her, and busy yourself trying to do anything but meet Laura’s gaze—and she’s only too happy to do the same, opening the laptop, fingers resuming a frantic pace.

And Mattie calls _you_ a monster.

* * *

 "Laura!”

Papa Hollis arrives on Tuesday, as planned. You’re painting your nails and fake-listening to Laura rant about some fanfiction or another she’s read _(“that doesn’t even make sense, they would never end up together!”),_ when he practically storms the room.

“Dad!” Laura breaks off her half-hour tangent with a shout. “You’re here!”

He crashes through the doorway, arms extended wide, and practically tackles her into a hug. Not a good idea, as it turns out. When Laura yelps in pain, he pulls away, rapidly scanning over her injuries. “Oh, Laura, I’m sorry!” he breathes, brow scrunched, but face pinched. “Look at you! They told me it was bad, but they didn’t say it was this bad! I told you that you should have stayed in Canada!”

"I’m fine, Dad, really,” she gasps, blinking a little. “Just—you’re here!”

“It’s Tuesday,” he says, firm. “I told you I’d be here on Tuesday.”

“It is?” she hums, frowning. “Time kind of lost all meaning, like, forever ago.”

His eyes narrow on her, assessing. You see where Laura gets her ‘thinking’ face from. “You gave your old man a heart attack, you know,” he says, settling heavily into the chair at her side, pressing his head into his hands—there’s a quaver in his voice. “When I heard what happened, I almost drove through a blizzard to come see you.”

Laura’s eyes soften, and she reaches out, taking ahold of her father’s hands and pulling them from his face. “I know, Carm told me…” she shakes her head. “I’m glad you didn’t. You know I don’t like you driving in the snow like that. Not…not after Mom.”

“I know,” he sighs, shuddery. “I know, but I was so worried. I’d packed my bags, and was halfway to the car when she called—” he glances at you, then, and you feel a little weird, a voyeur to their family reunion. “But…she made a convincing argument.”

Laura flashes you a look, and you can read the gratitude in her eyes. “Carm’s pretty good at arguing,” she says, smiling. “It’s kind of like her super power—that, and her infinite well of sarcasm, spite, and her mysterious ability to shed enough hair to clog the drain _every time_ she showers.”

“Wow, scathing stuff, creampuff. You wound me,” you sniff, arms crossing. “How ever will I recover?”

Papa Hollis straightens a little, then, his hands curling tighter around Laura’s. But his eyes aren’t on her, they’re on you.

“Carmilla,” he says, voice low—it’s not the first time you’ve spoken since that night, he’s been calling almost non-stop for days, but there’s something different to the way he says your name in person, a weight behind his eyes. “Thank you.”

As reluctant as you are to admit it, you’ve always been a little…intimidated when it comes to Laura’s father. Before her, you’d never done the whole ‘meet the family’ thing. You’d never had a meaningful relationship (even Ell only lasted long enough for your mother to find out, and then you’d never seen her again), come to think of it. So, you’d never known what to expect.

Not, you think, that you’d ever have been prepared for Sherman Hollis, Overprotective Dad™. He’s a one-man bear spray production line, and you’ve been present for some of the lecturers and ‘remedial’ courses he’s given Laura about self-defense (Christmas is a _weird_ time in the Hollis house, although the sight of your girlfriend with a gun _had_ been strangely…compelling). You’re not easily intimidated, and you know you could take him in a fight, but…you’ve never wanted to fight him, you’ve always just wanted him to _like_ you.

There’s a change in the air between you, ignited by his words to you over the phone that night, and in exchanges you’ve had since. He trusts you now. His words, _‘I was wrong’_ and _‘she deserves someone like you,’_ play in your head on repeat. He believes you can take care of his daughter, even when he can’t, and that—that means the world to you.

“You’re welcome,” you say, meeting his eyes over Laura’s shoulder, a tentative smile on your face. “Glad you could make it.”

He smiles back at you, then turn his eyes to Laura—there’s a shade, a shadow of regret and despair in them, still—but he smiles, warm and affectionate and _fatherly._ “I’m glad I could be here, too,” he says, squeezing his daughter’s hand. His face grows a little tighter, though. “We need to have a very long, serious talk about acceptable levels of danger, Laura.”

Laura sighs, the smile rushing off her face, replaced with pure horror. “Dad, I—”

“Quiet,” he says, low, frowning. “You’re in for a Hollis-patented lecture, sweetheart. Obviously, you haven’t been keeping up with proper security measures, and—”

Because you have no desire to sit through a twenty-point presentation on the importance of pocket-sized bear spray bottles or how to break a bone in a few easy steps, and because hospital food is _gross_ , you decide that you may as well leave the happy family to their ramblings.

Also, discretion is the better part of valor, and you don’t want to be suckered into any ‘practical demonstrations’, because you’re sure Sherman’s still holding a grudge from the last time, when you’d almost body-slammed him into the coffee table on Thanksgiving.

“—and, honestly, mail doesn’t even need to be _delivered_ to the premises like that, does it? You kids are always talking about ‘oh, Dad, technology is where it’s at’, right? So, why not do everything digital, save the rainforest, _and_ your old man a heart attack. Actually—”

You stand, swallowing a laugh as Laura leans back into the sheets, chastened, at her father’s rambling.

“Carm?”

“I’ll be back with food, cutie,” you brush a hand through her hair, press a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Enjoy your lecture. Try not to let your Dad talk you into getting laser fields or panic rooms installed, okay?”

There’s resignation written in her eyes, an acceptance that makes you laugh. “I demand cookies.”

“Well, who am I to refuse a demand from a lovely lady,” you grin, ruffling her hair just to see her pout, then depart. “Catch you later, trouble maker, Mr. Hollis.”

“So, about that panic room—” the words follow you as you exit.

You cackle, and leave your girlfriend to her father’s lecture.

* * *

 

Laura is in the hospital for a few weeks—weeks of non-stop visits from friends and family that leave you irritable, clamoring for a private moment—before you’re allowed to take her home.

It’s a victory for both of you when Dr. Chambers gives you the good news. Laura’s got strict orders not to push herself too hard, and she’ll need to come back for consultations and to get her cast removed in a few more weeks, but she’s free. No more boring hospital room for either of you.

Papa Hollis, who’s set up shop in a hotel down the road from the hospital, drives you back to your apartment in his rental car. You’d have taken her home, but there’s no way you’re going to get Laura, with her cast and fractured ribs, on the back of your motorcycle—that’s without the crutches, or all the get-well gifts she’s been given (it takes three trips to get everything).

“Well, ladies,” Sherman says, once you manage to get your girlfriend and all her belongings to your apartment, reluctance in his tone, “I guess I should leave you to it.”

You smile at him, a little edged. Once Laura was settled upstairs, and the two of you were safely out of earshot, you’d done your best to discourage him from sticking around too long.

( _“With all due respect, sir, I think Laura and I could use some…alone time.”)_

_(“Oh,” he’d waved his hands. “That’s alright, pretend I’m not here. I’ll just make you girls lunch, and check the locks for—”)_

_(“Sherman,” you’d clapped a hand over his shoulder, smiling without good intentions. “As much as we’re…grateful for your help, I can take care of it from here. There’s some things only a girlfriend can do—things that her father_ definitely _shouldn’t be present for.”)_

_(“Oh? Oh!” he’d grimaced, shaking his head. “I’m…going to pretend I didn’t hear that. For my sake.”)_

_(“Excellent.”)_

“You’re leaving?” Laura pipes up from the kitchen, slouching against a crutch—they’re not exactly comfortable to use with her injured ribs, and she’s awkward with them, but she’s enjoying being out of bed for more than a bathroom trip.

He glances at you, face screwed up. “Yeah, I think that’d be best. Let you get settled in, you know,” the tips of his ears were red, and he was uncomfortable—this was the man that insisted the two of you sleep in separate beds when you visited, desperate to believe his daughter was pure, untouched (although, you always snuck in after he fell asleep).

“Oh, okay,” Laura squints at him like she doesn’t really believe it, but isn’t going to chase the matter up—you know she’s just as eager as you for some ‘together’ time. “Well, I’ll see you later?”

He nods, moving to give her a hug, then just as swiftly retreating. “I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow, and we can have a little father-daughter catch up.”

“Alright,” Laura brightens. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.”

You smile at Sherman, sly, edged, as he shuffles slowly out the door. “Bye, Mr. Hollis.”

“Carmilla.”

You shut the door a little too eagerly, and then turn, resting your back against it, to stare at Laura. She’s somehow levered herself up onto the kitchen island now, crutches propped up against the counter. Her yellow cast is almost blindingly bright in the afternoon sun, bobbing lightly.

“So,” Laura says, eyes sweeping around the room, a teasing smile on her face, “did some body-double replace my girlfriend while I was gone, or did you actually learn to clean up after yourself?”

“Oh, I know how to keep clean,” you deliberately don’t mention that Perry had dropped by the evening before, picking up the hurricane of dirty clothes, food containers and general filth. “But maybe,” you break off, leering, “I prefer to be _dirty_.”

It takes her a moment to pick up the double entendre in your words, but the moment she does, you’re treated to a bright blush. Laura’s hands find the fabric of her shorts, twisting it between her fingers. “Carm, that’s not—I, I mean—you!” she sputters, and it’s adorable. “You know what I mean!”

“Oh?” you advance forward, stalking across the room with a smirk, like a predator facing down prey. “Do I?”

Laura watches you cautiously, her lip caught between her teeth. It’s a look you know, one that makes you smile, full of bad ideas and bad intentions.

“Carm,” she gasps as your hands find her thighs and, careful, nudge them apart, filling the space.

“Well,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around her hips, tugging her forward until she’s flush against you, your chests pressed together. “Don’t you look tempting.”

She shudders as your fingers slip under the hem of her tank top, skim her lower back. “This is cheating,” she says, breath warm against you, eyes flickering to your lips. Her pupils are blown, wide, and when she loops her arms around the back of your neck, pulls you even closer, you know you’ve already got her. “Did you plan this?”

You smirk, nose bumping hers. “Would you be mad if I did?”

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, “is that why Dad left? What did you say to him—”

You swallow the rest of her babbling with a kiss, so warm and hot it steals all the bluster away. Laura falls into you, fingers wrapping urgently in your hair. One hand wraps tighter around your neck, thumbing the skin there.

God, it’s so much—the scent of her, the feel of her, close for the first time in weeks. It threatens to take you over, the rush of it all. You want nothing more than _Laura_ , spread and gasping for you on the counter-top, want to map every inch of her that you’ve been denied, kept from.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, when you pull away, fingers sliding shamelessly up her back, tracing the outline of her spine. “I’ve missed touching you. I’ve missed hearing you. I’ve missed _tasting_ of you.”

Laura whines, low and filthy, when you nudge her head to the side, spotting her neck with kisses, tongue playing against her skin. “Carm—” she gasps, pulling you impossibly closer, erasing any modicum of space between you. “Bed. We need to—to go there. Right now.”

You laugh, a low, raspy sound, half-buried in the crook of her shoulder. “Why waste time?” you say, fingers sliding free of her shirt, tracing the hem of her shorts, brushing the skin of her hipbone. “What if I want you, right here, right now?”

Laura’s breath is unsteady, almost panting, in your ear. Even without the heart monitor, you’d swear you could hear her heart jump at those words. “Because I don’t feel like giving the—the neighbors a free show,” she sighs, almost moans, as your fingernails trace her skin. “The window, Carm.”

She has a point. The large, curtain-less windows that give your apartment so much natural light are kind of a curse, because as pretty as the skyline of Styria is, they're kind of open to the world. If anyone across the street were to look out their windows, they'd be able to see you there, wrapped around your girlfriend. And, hey, you're not adverse to PDA exactly, but that's different. You want to be the only one to know Laura like this, to see her naked, coming apart beneath you. Nobody else gets to share that view, you own the exclusive rights.

You growl, frustrated, against her. “Fine,” your hands come down, grasp her thighs tight, and wrap them against your sides—it’s awkward, bulky, with the weight of her cast, but your blood is rushing too loudly to care. “Forget the crutches, cutie. And hold tight.”

Laura gasps when you tug her off the counter, her arms coiling tightly over your shoulders, her thighs gripping you tighter. It takes a moment to find your balance, holding her tight to your front. Then, you’re moving blindly through the apartment, her lips slanted over yours.

“Careful,” you say, when she accidentally tugs at your hair, pulls a hiss from your lips, “or we won’t make it to the bed.”

Laura kisses you harder, moans against your lips. “Bed, right,” she pulls away, and you kick open the door to your bedroom, “beds are good, great.”

“Glad you think so,” you reply, fingers squeezing her thighs, slipping ever-so-slightly under the legs of her shorts, “but, I can think of something _better_.”

She shudders, whines. “Carm…”

You set Laura on the bed, kicking off your shoes, and then your pants. She looks gorgeous, spread out among the pillows. By the time you settle over her hips, careful of her leg, you’re in just your underwear and bra.

Laura looks up at you, her eyes dark, lip caught between her teeth. “You,” she breathes, voice rough, low, “are going to kill me.”

You smirk at her, eyelids low. “Well,” you reach behind you, unclasp your bra and pull it free, delighting in the hitch in her breath, “it’s a good way to go.”

“The best,” she groans, warm palms tracing a path up your sides, until her hands find your chest, thumbing softly at your skin, just the way you like.

“Flattery,” you reply, leaning down to nip at her ear, hands seizing the hem of her top, “will get you _everywhere_ , cupcake.”

And, like that, for the first time in weeks, you fall into each other.

For the first time in weeks, everything feels _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, why do I even bother setting a chapter count if I'm just going to extend it every time. I _thought_ this was going to be the final chapter, but then, when everything came together, I realized what I'd had planned for the second half worked out better alone, as an epilogue of sorts. So, you'll all have to tolerate just another small wait. Remember when this was supposed to be a two-shot? Laugh it up, I know.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! It was a little more banter and a little less plot driven, but, I think we all need to decompress and relax after the events of the first three chapters, yes? Also, it took a surprise turn into a non PG-13 ending at the end there (and, I'll admit, I was very tempted to write the full thing, but I restrained myself). I'm a tease, I know, it's the worst. Maybe one day I'll indulge you all, and write the NC-17 content we all deserve.
> 
> This was a little belated, as I caught the flu, and the effort to write is a little evasive when I have become Death, Destroyer of Sinuses (and Wills to Live). Still, with 28k+ words in a week (holy crap, I only published this exactly a week ago, what?!?), well, I think I've spoiled you all. Enjoy it, you little monsters.


	5. breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura and Carmilla finally go on their big, gay, European adventure; or, the one where Carmilla witnesses the world through Laura's eyes, and decides that it's an adventure she never wants to quit.

_Styria, Austria_

“Passports? Oh, god,” Laura flies frantically through the room, burying her head in drawers and cupboards, pawing at the insides. “Carm! Carm, where are our passports? Oh my god, we’re never going to leave, we’re going to miss the flight, if we ever get through customs—”

You sigh, flashing the prize in your hands. “Take a breath, cutie, they’re right here.”

“Oh!” Laura pauses, relief flooding across her face. It’s gone quickly, however, as a new set of imaginary anxieties take their place. “Oh, good, great! Now, the—the tickets? And our departure times? What about our ride?”

“Double and triple checked,” you say, at length, blowing a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Laura. _Relax_. You’ve been running around for half an hour, and as cute as I find your manic little episodes, it got tiring fifteen minutes ago. We’re _ready_ , sweetheart, I promise. Just take a breath.”

Laura takes a deep, fortifying breath. The tension in her shoulders and the way she’s fiddling with the keys in her hand tells you she’s barely a minute from another frantic explosion.

So, you do what you always do—you calm her down.

“Come here,” you say, dropping everything on the counter and opening your arms.

She opens her mouth. “Carm—”

“Laura. Come here.”

Without further prompting, she skirts the counter, nestling into your arms. The moment she touches you, she half-slumps against you, arms around you neck. You pull her close, tight, like somehow you can bridge the distance between you and merge into one.

“I’m nervous,” she admits, into the crook of your neck.

“Really, I couldn’t tell,” you say, dry, hissing when she digs a reprimanding nail into your shoulder. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why? You fly all the time, cupcake—and the flight to Toronto is a _lot_ longer. It’s not like you to be travel shy.”

She shakes her head. “I just…it sounds dumb, but I’ve lived here for years, and I’ve never even set foot outside of Austria. And now, we’re setting off on this great, European adventure. I want everything to be perfect, for both of us.”

You shake your head, stroking a hand through her hair. “It _will_ be perfect, as long as I have you.”

Laura sighs into your shoulder. “But…”

“No buts,” you say, rubbing your hands up and down her back. “We’re going to go. We’re going to have a great time. Even if we sit in our hotel for a month, eating room service and watching crappy TV, it’d be the perfect getaway. Because all I _want_ is you.”

You feel her smile into your skin. “We’re not staying in bed all day.”

“You say that now,” you nudge her, driving her slowly backwards, until she’s half-pressed into the counter. “But you’ll find I can be _very_ convincing.”

“Not nearly as much as you think,” she replies, fingers playing absently with your hair. “If we wanted to lay in bed all day, we could skip all the hotels and plane tickets. That’s just a normal Saturday for us.”

You smirk, leaning down to catch her lips. “Saturday is a very good day,” you reply, voice low, the hands on her back slipping a little lower. “But I prefer Sunday morning, when I get to eat _breakfast in bed_.”

She slaps your shoulder, light. “Okay, okay, tone it down, lady killer,” Laura laughs, but she can’t hide the blush on her face. “We’ve got a plane to catch. And I’m not missing my chance to see Paris just because someone decided they’d like a pre-customs quickie.”

“It’s a pleasant thought,” you acknowledge, pointed.

“To be explored _later_ ,” she says, leaning backwards, away from your wandering hands. “I’m not an easy date, Karnstein. You’ve got to woo me first.”

You arch an eyebrow. “’Woo you’? Cupcake, I’m taking you on a month long vacation in _Europe_. Sorry to break it to you, but I don’t think you get any more ‘wooed’ than that.”

“Well, I’ll consider myself ‘wooed’ when we get there,” she says, smirking playfully at you. “First stop, actually making it to Paris. Then, maybe we’ll have time for the non-PG-13 part of the vacation.”

You flash her a sly look, squeezing her ass. “I consider that a promise.”

“ _If_ we make it,” she reasserts, tapping your nose, the smirk growing into something mischievous. “Watch the hands, _princess._ Or you’re spending the first night in Paris on the couch.”

You scoff. “Is that a threat?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, consider me threatened,” you say, hands skirting upwards, away from anywhere ‘dangerous’, tangling into her own hair instead, running the strands through your fingers. You hum softly. “I’m glad we’re doing this, finally.”

She flashes you a smile. “Me too. I’m glad I earned my freedom,” she says, pointedly wiggling her cast-free leg against yours. “And I’m glad I get to explore it with you.”

A buzz sounds from the counter, and you lean over Laura’s shoulder to read your phone screen. “That’s Kirsch, he’s downstairs.”

Almost six months on from the accident, and it’s funny how he’s still in your life—dropping into the bar sometimes with Laura (and Danny, unfortunately), coming over for ‘party nights’ (which, in this house, consist mostly of board games with the Nerd Herd), and now, driving you to the airport.

You’d tried to shake him off, of course. But Kirsch is like a big, stray puppy; nobody warned you that once you invite a stray into your home, they never really leave.

“Time to go?”

You kiss Laura, once, chaste. “Time to go. You ready?”

“Yup,” she says, reaching up to drag you down, into a deeper, more methodical kiss. When she finally pulls away, you look into her face, and she’s beaming. “I’m ready for our big, gay, European adventure.”

You roll your eyes, reaching around her to snag your things. “Way to make our big, romantic getaway sound trashy, Hollis.”

She cracks you a grin. “We’re a cliché—embrace it.”

“I’ll embrace _you_ ,” you say, tapping her hip. “But later. Let’s get moving, before your ‘dudescort’ decides we’re taking too long and decides to bust the door down.”

Laura grins, shoulders her backpack. “Well,” she darts towards the front door, pausing to toss you a fiery look. “Race you!”

She out the door and halfway to the elevator, laughing, by the time you fumble your keys into the door and lock it. “That’s cheating!”

“Sorry, not sorry!”

Laura—the ruthless, cutthroat girl that she is—doesn’t even hold the elevator.

* * *

_Paris, France_

You wake, the first day of your new adventure, to Laura’s bright eyes and a cardboard coffee cup.

When you kiss her, sheets pooling around your waist, she tastes like cocoa.

“I go hungry while you were asleep, and there’s this café down the street,” she says, all wide-eyed wonder, breathless, as she sets a paper bag on the bedside table, “and they had _so many_ different types of pastries, and coffee, and cookies! I didn’t know what to get, so I got some of everything!”

You crack a smile, take the coffee from her hand—it’s warm, rich, flavored lightly with a dash of sugar and little else; the way you like it. “It’s Paris, sweetness,” you say, licking the lingering coffee from your lips, “of course there’s pastries.”

She’s like a child, enthusiasm undeterred. “I know! I know, but they had so many, Carm. And I didn’t know what they meant or anything, so I just picked a bunch at random, but—” she smiles, then, so bright and unrestrained it takes your breath away. “We’re here. In _Paris_.”

“Missed the memo, cutie?” You set the cup aside, reach out to pull her into bed, until she’s straddling your hips. “You were practically vibrating with excitement the whole flight. I’m pretty sure they turned on the turbulence warnings because of you.”

Laura flushes, arms wrapping around your shoulders. “Yeah, but…it hit me, you know?” she says, and she looks so beautiful, with the morning light playing across her skin, it’s almost magical. “We’re here. In _Paris_. We can eat pastries, and explore museums and see the Eiffel Tower and—we can do _anything_.”

You reach up, pull her into a soft, exploratory kiss. “Anything?” you say, fingers deliberately tracing the bare skin of her thighs, where her skirt has ridden up. “Careful, cupcake. You’ll put ideas in a girl’s head.”

She shakes her head, slapping your hands away. “Nope, cool it, you. We’re in Paris! We’re not going to spend all day in bed,” Laura shimmies away from you, darting off the bed with a single, chaste kiss. “We’re burning daylight, Karnstein. Up and at ‘em.”

You fall back into the bed with a huff. “You’re killing me, Hollis.”

“Drink your coffee,” she says, smile unrepentant. “Then, we’re going exploring!”

When you don’t make a move to get up, beyond throwing your arm over your eyes, she huffs.

“ _And_ , if you’re good,” she says, and the lilt in her tone makes you move your arm, peering curiously at her—swallowing at the heated look, the slight smirk, on her face. “Then maybe we can spend all _night_ in bed, got it?”

You reach for your coffee, shooting her a heated look over the rim. “Oh, really?”

“Really.”

 

The Louvre, Versailles, Notre-Dame, and more than a dozen other sights—Paris has a lot of history, so much culture, and you have four days to see all you can.

Laura’s never been before, and she’s babbling about all the things she wants to see, do. She presents you with all sorts of tour guides, websites and chronologically-sorted timetables. It’s cute, in her enthusiastic, manic, Laura way.

“We don’t need to sync our watches, or plan it to the minute, cutie,” you dump the pamphlets into the bin in your hotel room, ignoring her startled squawking and protests. “It’s a vacation, Laura. You’re supposed to go with the flow, relax, _enjoy_ yourself. If you wanted to worry about deadlines, we could have stayed in Styria.”

She flushes, embarrassed. “I just want—”

“Everything to be perfect, according to that pretty, manic little brain of yours,” you say, tapping her affectionately on the cheek. “But trust me, okay? We’ll see it all. There’s no rush.”

Laura is a creature of habit, of constant. She likes to be in control, to know every inch of the plan, and to plan her own involvement accordingly. It’s cute, most of the time, if a little much.

She hesitates, just for a moment.

“Please.”

Laura relents, nodding. “Okay…but you better not get us lost. You just threw all our maps away.”

"Honey, getting lost is half the fun.”

 

It’s been years since you last came to Paris, since you were twenty-one and newly-escaped from your mother, cutting a path through Europe on your taste-test of freedom.

The city is even more beautiful than you remember. Or perhaps it’s the company.

There’s something— _everything—_ different about sharing the city with the woman you love, without the taste of regret and fear on your tongue. Instead, it’s with the taste of Laura’s lip gloss and the ham and brie croissants you had for lunch.

You know which is better.

With your hand in hers, you pull each other through the streets of Paris.

The sights are the same, but you see them through new eyes: through hers.

It’s breathtaking, the wonder, the sheer awe that takes over her face. The way Laura looks at the world like it’s something amazing, unseen, every moment to be cherished. You can’t even be mad when she pulls out her phone at every corner, pulls you off course, to take photos of cobblestone streets or selfies in front of ancient lampposts.

You take her to all the places you remember, remapping the memories, until the views are secondary and all you feel, see, taste, _remember_ , is Laura.

The Louvre, standing in front of the Mona Lisa—Laura’s babbling _(“it’s so small, I never knew it was that tiny. i feel lied to.”_ ), your chin on her shoulder, the sweet scent of perfume and old paintings around you.

The Eiffel Tower, the wind in your hair, your arms around her—the soft gasp of awe, the way her eyes trace the horizon reverently, pointing towards all the things she can name.

The Arc de Triomphe, high above you both—her arm at your lower back, her smiling cheek against yours, as she holds up her phone _(“for posterity, carm. now, say cheese!”)._

Notre-Dame, both awe-struck and silent before a rose window—Laura’s gasp, soft in your ear, the glow of pink-tinted light over her skin, reflecting in her eyes _(“wow, it’s…beautiful”)._

Sainte-Chapelle, tall windows reaching high above you—her fingers tight in yours, palm warm, you’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the crowd, and the wide-eyed awe on her face you’ll never forget.

Each day, you explore, roaming the streets of the ancient city.

You venture out of your hotel early each morning, eat breakfast in cafes and lunch in bistros—you trade bites, and laughs, and you can barely keep your hands away from each other. You spend your days in museums, galleries, cathedrals and all manner of ancient buildings, taking in all you can.

At night, full on delicious meals and half-drunk on wine, you jog like idiots through the streets. You’re eager and excited, and when you fall onto the bed in your hotel together, you kiss each other like you’ve never kissed before, teeth and tongue and tenderness all wrapped together.

It’s pure and perfect, and you’re nothing more than two girls, young and in love, on a globetrotting holiday—all of Europe stretched before you, opportunity and adventure at your feet.

Each day, Laura smiles wide and drags you by the hand through crowded streets to see some new sight, to catch some new detour.

Each night, she giggles into your kisses and touches you like she’ll never get the chance again, like if she doesn’t take her hands away, your adventure will never end.

And every moment, you fall more and more in love with her.

 

Your last day in France you spend on the beach, just like you’d promised her.

Just for the day, you rent a car—a shiny, new convertible, because _screw it_ , if you’re going to be a cliché, you’re going to go all the way (you deserve it, after all you went through, and you’d scored a pretty big ‘inheritance’ from Mother being incarcerated that’s been burning a hole in your bank account).

Deauville is almost three hours out of Paris, and it’s the Parisian version of the Hamptons—a luxurious, populated beach, with all sorts of resorts and amenities to match.

Because Laura is Laura, rather than enjoying a massage or the royal treatment, she wants nothing more than to sit on the beach, just the two of you. And, because you love her (you can _hear_ LaFontaine’s whip sound, as much as it pains you), you agree.

After finding a park, and wandering the streets for a while—because Deauville is _gorgeous,_ a mix of quaint, picturesque little buildings, some painted in eye-catching reds and yellows, and enormous spas and hotels, tall like skyscrapers, towering over the waterside—you finally find your way to the sand.

“Whoa! This is _amazing_ ,” Laura breathes.

You wrap an arm low around her stomach, bared by the yellow bikini she’s wearing. “Quite the view,” you purr, fingers playing against her skin.

Rather than shudder or spring away, she sinks into you. “It is,” she says, tilting her head back to glance into your eyes, and the smile she’s wearing is warm, earnest.

The sand is soft, white, and the water is so blue you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like it. But nothing, _nothing_ , will ever beat how beautiful Laura’s smile is.

“Come on,” Laura says, gripping your hand in hers, “let’s go swim.”

 

By the time you drag each back to your hotel, you’re both dead on your feet.

It’s late in the evening, and after hours spent in the sun and the surf, you’re ready to fall into bed and never rise again—half-tempted to skip your next flight (it’s at nine, an ungodly hour, as far as you’re concerned).

But Laura prods you into the shower, yawning. Her skin tastes like salt when you kiss her, and her hair is tangled, dried, and certainly going to be painful to separate if left until morning. So, you follow her, sighing, into the shower.

Your hands don’t stray, for once. Instead, you touch each other chastely—working shampoo into her hair, soap over her, exhausted but methodical. She returns the favor, brushing your cheeks and shoulders with kisses, slowly cleaning you, until you’re buzzing with a soft, warm kind of pleasure, and you want nothing more than to wrap yourself around her and sleep for an age.

Laura, luckily, seems to feel the same—you fall into bed together, only half dry but too tired to care. You drag the covers over you, and then fold yourself around her—her back to your front, legs tangled, arms wrapped around her; just the way you like.

“I love you, Laura,” you whisper into the crook of her neck.

Her arm covers the one you have wrapped over her side, twining your fingers together. “I love you too, Carm.”

Your last night in France, you fall asleep quietly, swiftly, peacefully.

It’s, oddly, your favorite night—the beginning, you hope, of a lifetime like it.

* * *

_Zürich, Switzerland_

You have a brief stopover in Switzerland, just two days, before you’re due to move on to Italy.

Like she was that first day, jittery and anxious, Laura practically bounces off the plane.

She looks crazy, you think, watching some of the security side-eye her—but she’s pretty, blonde, and entirely too innocent looking, so you make it through customs without more than a cursory glance.

Zürich Airport is a little out of the main city, so there’s another leg to your morning of travel already. You ride the packed train with Laura sitting close, her thigh pressed against yours. For the entire ten minute trip into Zürich’s city center, you keep your hand on her knee, stemming the nervous bob.

“Easy does it, sunshine,” you say, flashing her a loaded look. “We’re almost there. The hotel’s across the road from the station. Then, we’ll see if we can’t do something about all that _energy_.”

Laura flushes, but doesn’t rebuke you—a victory, you think. “Sorry,” she says, hand settling over your own. “I’m just excited. We’re in _Swizterland,_ you know?”

“Yes, and yesterday we were in France,” you say, slow, smiling. “And in a few days, we’ll be in Italy. And even more places after that.”

“I know, I know,” she beams, bright and unrestrained. “I just…I’ve always _dreamed_ of all these places, but actually being here with you—” she pauses, sends you a smile, “well, this feels like one of the best dreams I’ve ever had.”

“Except it’s not a dream, we’re here, together,” you say, flipping your hands around, so you can grip her fingers tightly with your own. “So hold on to your backpack, baby, because I’m going to show you all of Europe.”

Laura smiles at you, a million things in her eyes. “I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I.”

 

Somehow, the next day, you find yourself standing at the gates of the _Zürich Zoologischer Garten_ , or the Zürich Zoo.

It’s barely morning ( _“it’s been morning for eight hours, Carm!”)_ , or at least _you_ think so. You’re a bartender, your waking hours are usually between noon and 5AM, sue you. You want nothing more than to be in bed, where it’s warm and you can wrap around your girlfriend.

Still, what Laura wants, you reluctantly give her—you’re kind of weak to her smile, and her pout, and the way she sways her hips to try and tempt you out of bed.

Hence, the being at the zoo.

“Come on,” she says, once you’ve got tickets and a map, pulling you to the right the moment you step inside. “I want to find something.”

Bemused, but content, you follow her with lazy steps—letting her lead, twisting and turning the map in her hands, like she’s pulling you through the streets of Paris. “Care to share?”

“Just wait,” she squeezes your hand, a promise in her eyes. “It’ll be great.”

“If you say so.”

She gets a little distracted by the animals—which, of course, _zoo_ —and you end up darting between enclosures for a while, looking at everything from flamigoes to alpacas. It only gets worse as Laura pulls out her phone, recording them, for some strange reason.

You do your best to ruin her fun—standing over her shoulder, making dry, acerbic comments about everything, narrating like you’re on a nature documentary.

“A wild Hollis, in her natural habitat,” you say to the camera, reaching over her shoulder to flip the camera around. “They’re pack creatures, very affectionate. But they will _absolutely_ pull you up and down the zoo like you’re a hostage, make no mistake. They’re very prone to distraction, of course, so you’ll have to remind them to put the camera down once in a while—and, oh, and there’s the Hollis’ famous _pout_ , ladies and gentlemen. Truly spectacular.”

Eventually, she gives up, locking her phone with a glare. “You suck.”

“Only if you ask nicely,” you quip offhandedly, eyes drifting to the side, and then brightening.

You nudge Laura in the ribs, gesturing the a familiar animal prowling in the enclosure next to you. “Got your Papa Hollis approved protection?” you ask, smirking when she rolls her eyes. “All those bears, and no spray? For _shame_ , honey. Think of your safety.”

“Jerk,” she huffs.

“You love me,” you reply, pulling her close.

She cracks a smile, kisses you—right there, in the middle of a zoo in Zürich, like you’re the only girls in the world. “For some reason,” she giggles, warm and lovely against your lips. “Now c’mon. We’ve got a date with something awesome.”

Dutiful, you follow. “Lead on, cupcake.”

Laura leads you like a girl on a mission, from there. She keeps the map tilted away, and you have to observe by the signs and the wildlife where you’re going—into the area where they house all the big cats, wolves and other predatory animals, apparently.

You appreciate the sight of these creatures more than the cuddly ones, like the otters, no matter how Laura had cooed. Lions and wolves are much, much cooler—majestic, rugged, in a way only predators are.

“Here, Carm!” Laura pulls you away from watching a lion rip apart chunks of raw meat, purpose in her eyes, and leads you over to a thickly forested enclosure. “This is it! Look!”

You almost miss it, eyes searching through the canopy for whatever it is that’s caught Laura’s attention this time. But, before she can do more than squeak excitedly beside you, you see what’s got her so excited: it’s a panther, stalking slowly through the treetops.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

And perhaps it’s childish, to be so attached, so awed, to a creature like it. But you are, always have been.

It’s equal parts childhood fascination and fixation—they’re strong, swift, stealthy creatures, and you remember watching an animal documentary on TV, spotting one for the first time, exclaiming you wanted to be one.

Mother, of course, had laughed away your childhood fixation, encouraged you into other pursuits, into chasing her interests. But, you’d never forgotten—attachment, just as much as fixation.

Laura’s eyes sparkle when she looks at you. “Her name’s Bagheera,” she says, pulling you towards an information board, written in Swiss German and English. “Like the Jungle Book.”

“Bagheera,” you say, watching the panther slip effortlessly between the branches. “Wow. Laura, she’s…I love it.”

She smiles, earnest and caring. “I thought you might.”

When you leave the zoo that day, it’s with two new additions: a stuffed bear, an a stuffed panther.

(Laura laughs, but kisses you thanks.)

(You flush when she presents you with yours, but you kiss her like you’ll never tire of her taste, her love.)

 

Your last evening in Zürich finds you in a restaurant and bar, _Kronenhalle_. It’s world famous for its atmosphere and food—and, of course, it’s expensive. But it’s rated well, and you’ve never really cared about money (this trip, after all, is more expensive than Laura knows, and funded from your inheritance).

In the restaurant, you order one of their seasonal specials—fillets of rabbit with ratatouille, which is luxurious, perfectly cooked, and mouthwatering, the sort of meal you’ll remember fondly for the rest of your life.

Laura, perpetually indecisive (and unlikely to order anything with ‘vegetable’ in the name) picks something random on the menu, Filetgulasch Stroganov. The moans she makes tell you it’s delicious. Proved by the forkfuls you steal off her plate when she’s distracted.

When your bellies are satisfied with red wine, dinner and dessert—you’re both too full, but make room to split a mango and pomegrante panna cotta—you eventually shift from the restaurant to the bar.

It’s more upscale than the places you’d frequented in France, or that you normally visit back home (your bar is a student bar, through and through, and not at all ‘refined’). But, you’re both in dresses (a sleek, black dress for you; Laura’s a honey-colored one that compliments her eyes), and eager to enjoy the last night in Switzerland.

“Oh, oh, get this one,” Laura says, nudging you, pointing to a mixed drink from their specials list. “I _dare_ you.”

You flash her a look. “A dare? Well, how could I possibly refuse such a childish sentiment?”

Of course, you do order it—an Aurora; made with gin, sake, edelflower liqeur, lime and cucumber. It tastes foul, because you _hate_ cucumber and lime, and it costs entirely too much, but it’s worth it for the loud laugh Laura lets out as you choke it down.

You wipe your mouth, a challenge in your eyes. “Oh, your turn, cupcake,” you say, smiling sweetly at the bartender, waving him forward to whisper some ingredients in his ear. “One, please, for the lady.”

Laura’s face when he sets the concotion in front of her is positively horrofied. “Carm, _no_.”

“Carm, _yes_ ,” you smirk, and when she doesn’t rush to take it, you lift it to her lips. “Open up, sweetness. Or it’s going down your dress.”

As you pour a foul mix of vodka, tabasco, lemon and tomato juice down your girlfriend’s reluctant throat, she almost chokes. You almost choke on your laughter.

“Oh my god,” Laura pants, red-faced and gagging, ignoring the looks thrown at you by other patrons (your mother would be so proud of you, playing stupid games in a high-class bar). “You, you b— _bad person_.”

You crack a grin. “Do you kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?”

She pulls you in, slams her mouth over yours, and visciously pushes her tongue into your mouth. “I do now,” she huffs, pulling back—and you’re gagging too, the taste of tabasco and vodka on her tongue is the _worst_ thing you’ve ever associated with her.

You scowl. “That’s gross.”

“You made it,” she glares, then waves the bartender back, a _look_ in her eyes—as she whispers something to him, and slams a handful of Euros dramatically onto the bar. “Now, let’s try this again.”

The night devolves into worse and worse concoctions. You’re torturing each other, cruel and unusual punishment, with all manner of hot sauce, fruit juice and alcohol thrown together at random. It’s awful, but it’s the most fun you’ve had in a long time.

(One of the worst is definitely the Cement Mixers; lime shots followed by Baileys, which is fine, until they condense into a sticky, disgusting mess in your mouth—Laura almost vomits on the counter).

At the end of the night, the bartender calls you both a taxi, and you barely get out the address in faltering German.

By the time you make it home, after an expensive fare (he’d kept the meter running, even after you had to stop him twice for Laura to throw up), you peel a comatose Laura out of her dress, and then toss yours with it.

You wake in the morning, still half-drunk, to Laura vomiting again.

Like a good girlfriend, you go and hold her hair back, grimacing when your head rushes and sways.

You do make your noon flight, but it’s a close thing; nobody messes with the two of you, hungover as hell, wearing sweatpants and sunglasses at lunchtime, in the rain.

* * *

_Rome, Italy_

You spend the first day in Italy in your hotel room, recovering from the ill-advised, drunken evening in Switzerland. The idea of laying in bed is promising, and Laura looks even worse than you do, pale and miserable—she’s always been a weak drinker, and you _may_ have been strong-arming her drinks a little.

So, the first day you spend in bed, cuddling, surfacing only for the bathroom or room service—even then, you don’t leave the bed, because you’re hungover and lazy, you just ask them to bring it inside (you tip graciously, and give the teenage worker the gift of seeing two very beautiful, naked-beneath-the-sheets, women in bed—more of a tip than he needs, honestly).

The first day in Italy tastes like misery, Laura’s warmth, and some delicious strawberry crepes.

It’s awful, but as far as trips to Italy go, better than the last one.

(You’d spent the last one alone, in a crappy hostel, stealing leftovers from the communal fridge and toiletries from girl’s bags—not a great time.)

At least you have Laura—

(She leaves bed, once or twice, to heave in the bathroom; although, thankfully, no more vomit makes an appearance.)

—poor, sweet, lightweight Laura.

 

In a turnabout, by the second morning, it’s Laura who pulls you out of bed.

She’s freshly showered, dressed and eager for some exploration—or, so her literally _jumping_ on top of you in bed implies.

“God,” you wheeze, struggling out from underneath her. “What the fuck, Laura?”

Sprawling in the bed beside you, legs half-dangling off the bed, she grins at you. “We’re in Rome!”

“Not this again,” you sigh. “You’re such a morning person, it’s disgusting.”

Laura nudges you in the belly, and you squirm away, seeking the safety of the opposite side of your king-sized bed. “Time to wake up, lazy bones,” she says, following your retreat with teasing fingers. “We’re not gonna lay around in bed all day again!”

Because discretion is the better part of valor, you scramble off the edge of bed, as naked as the day you were born—you’re _not_ ticklish, of course, it’s just _weird_. “God,” you moan to the ceiling. “What did I do in a past life to deserve such a peppy, upbeat girlfriend?”

Laura makes a face at you. “What did _I_ do to get you, the title act in ‘World’s Laziest Vampires’?”

“Wow, I’m almost impressed,” you say, rifling through your bag for some clean clothes—Laura did laundry, too, apparently, or the gnomes have stolen only the dirty half of your bag. “You been sitting on that one long?”

“I may have been spitballing for a while,” Laura grins. “You sleep forever.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m going to shower. Try not to be so happy when I come back, it’s gross.”

“Rude,” Laura huffs, crossing her arms.

“That’s the spirit, creampuff.”

 

Honestly, Rome is probably one of your favorite cities in the world. It’s full of all this history, the story of an ancient, highly advanced civilization, and it shows. It’s fascinating to wander through all the ruins, the arts, to map out the past of people hundreds of years earlier, to look at the ruins and imagine how they’d lived.

Laura seems to echo the sentiment, back to wide-eyed awe and childlike fascination, intruiged by each sight you explore.

Your hotel is in Rione V Ponte, and you start with the closest major attraction, the Pantheon.

When you step inside the shrine-turned-church, stand beneath the massive, vaulted ceiling, the warm morning light filters beautifully through the hole at its apex. You think, staring upwards, that it can’t get better than this. Then Laura steps into the beam of light, and she looks like an angel, like some ancient, ethereal, impossibly gorgeous thing, and you change your mind.

(Laura is the best of everything, of this trip.)

That day, you keep within the city, explore all the museums, churches and shrines you can find on foot—you visit the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, the National Roman Museum, the Galleria Borghese, walking through ancient streets and climbing steep hills.

In the day following that, you strike out west first—Vatican City is beautiful, full of old buildings, and there’s something magical about holding Laura in Saint Peter's Square (of course, the whole ‘lesbians in the holy city’ thing probably earns you more looks than intended, but you ignore them in favor of holding her closer).

 

The bulk of your later days is spent exploring south, the ruins of the Romans—the real reason people come to Italy, to Rome in particular.

You guide her through the rugged halls of the Colosseum, telling her all the stories you remember about the Gladiators—about battles, bloodsport and lions. You wander through the interior arena, and wonder absently about how many lived, died, fought within its walls.

Of course, there’s a certain amount of levity when you stumble upstairs and discover the Museum of Eros, a museum dedicated to the God of Love himself.

(There’s a lot of very phallic sculptures and art, and you almost laugh yourself to death when Laura mutters ‘ew’ and wrinkles her nose around anything vaguely protruding—because she is a child, sometimes, but you love her.)

You burn the last few hours before noon in the Baths of Caracalla, exploring the ancient bathhouse. Laura tells you of a school project when she was a kid, about exploring pools and spas, comparing them to the ancient bathhouse, and how she’d always wanted to come see it one day (if only to see if her assignment was correct, and the A+ well deserved, you suspect).

You venture back into the city proper for lunch.

The two of you find a little restaurant, like any other. It’s down an unassuming side street, squeezed between a butcher and a bakery, and there’s barely any seats. You sit outside in the afternoon sun, legs tangled together, at a tiny, rickety little table.

You order a pizza, because why not.

You could have guessed Laura’s order, even before she makes it, and you roll your eyes when she fulfills your expectations—in short order, there’s a margarita pizza in front of you, and a plate of spaghetti bolognese in front of Laura. 

“Are you going to eat pasta for every meal?”

“When in Rome,” she says to you, cracking a grin.

You give her a dramatic thumbs down. “Boo. Feed her to the lions.”

She scoffs at you, dramatically spears a meatball. “Y’know, that’s actually historically incorrect. Thumbs down means you like me, and want to save me. Thumbs _up_ is the bad one.”

“God, you’re such a nerd.”

“Totally,” Laura pops the meatball into her mouth, chews, smirking. “But you love it.”

Chin propped on your hand, you smirk at her. “Maybe,” you give her an entirely intentional thumbs down now, expression slipping into something disgustingly fond. “I rescind the lions. It’d suck to finish this trip without you.”

Laura’s smile is _radiant_. “Sap.”

“Shut it, Hollis,” you say, striking out with your fork and stealing a meatball from her plate. “Or I’ll fly us back to the zoo in Switzerland myself, and you can make good friends with Nala and Simba.”

“You love me too much, remember?” Laura snags a slice of your pizza, then, smiling unrepentantly.

You glare at her. “I _will_ turn this vacation around.”

“Yes, Mom,” she tells you, mouth full of margarita.

 

Like always, it’s almost sad when you have to leave Italy.

You spend your last two days exploring vineyards outside the city, sampling fresh wine, grapes and cheese, the full mile.

At one, they actually let Laura climb inside a barrel and stomp the grapes (they ask you if you’d like a go, and you just glare until the owner leaves), and despite the fruit staining her feet, she looks so _happy_ it’s breath-taking.

You buy a few bottles from that vineyard, just because.

You take one back to the hotel with you, tucked in the crook of your arm, and pay them to ship the rest back to Styria for you—it’s expensive, but Laura beams when you flash her the label, and honestly you couldn’t care less about the cost.

The last night in Rome, you curl up with Laura in your bed, flick the television to one of the channels playing in English (some soap opera or another, who cares), and drink together from the bottle.

The wine is sweet, delicious, and it tastes even better on her lips.

You spend the rest of the night pressed skin-to-skin, mapping every inch of her with your hands, your lips, your tongue—until Laura’s body is the only thing you’re sure you take away from Rome, the way she sighs your name the only thing you’ll ever need to remember.

* * *

_Athens, Greece_

"I’ve never been a fan of the Greek Gods,” Laura says to you, in a hall of The National Archaeological Museum in Athens, voice low. “There’s so many tragedies, so much suffering and bloodshed and violence, all for the wrong reasons—power, greed, lust, jealousy. I read some of their stories in high school, and again in college. But, they were always the same: selfish people, hurting others for selfish reasons.”

There’s a larger-than-life painting of Olympus, with a portrayal of Zeus firing lightning down upon helpless humans, as other gods cower or watch on. There’s no reverence or love in this painting. No romanticized story.

“I’m not entirely surprised,” you say, nudging Laura’s belly with your joint hands. “You’re too sweet, too nice _,_ to stomach the squabbling of Gods. I can just _see_ you up there, shouting down Zeus, or Hera, or anyone doing wrong—Laura Hollis, Goddess of all that’s Good and Right.”

She shakes her head, but her eyes sparkle. “I just wish people could be a little kinder, a little less self-serving.”

“Dreams are free, cupcake,” you say, and then soften the blow with a kiss, pulling her gently away from the painting, towards a particularly _anatomically interesting_ sculpture of Aphrodite. “But, if anyone’ll make a difference, I’m placing my bets on you.”

Her smile, you think, is worth more than its weight in gold.

 

“Oh my _god_ , that’s so _good_ ,” Laura moans, filthy. “Carm, I—”

You shake your head at her, bumping her hip with your own. “Careful, sweetness. Keep that up, and I’ll have to cut this evening short and drag you back to the hotel.”

Laura rolls her eyes at you, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “But this souvlaki is _amazing,”_ she groans, taking another bite of the savory treat in her hand. “I need, like, eight more. Nine more. I need one of these on every corner back home.”

“You’ve got enough,” you say, lip quirking. “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, honey. Save some room, alright? I’ve got an excellent dessert planned.”

She perks up, licking a trace of yogurt away from the corner of her mouth. “Dessert goes into a separate stomach, Carm,” she rolls her eyes matter-of-factly. “But plans? I like plans, especially when they come with dessert.”

“Oh, of course, how foolish of me,” you reply, taking her hand and dragging her down the street, away from the temptation of the food cart—you know it’s only the fact that her hands are still full, and that she doesn’t speak Greek, that keeps her from going back for seconds. “Come on, walk with me, cutie.”

Laura trots along beside you, her sneakers thudding softly on the cobblestones.

You’ve been doing a lot of walking on this trip, and almost no driving. You’ve been sticking to main cities, subways and wherever public transport can get you. Athens is no exception to that.

Where you’re going now, though—well, you’d called in a favor.

You walk slowly through the streets of Athens, the two of you, quietly eating your dinner. It’s late, well into the evening, and there’s not that many people around. It’s quieter, stiller, now, than the bustling city you’d arrived in two days earlier; you enjoy it, the peace.

Eventually, the two of you start to trace familiar roads, moving back in the direction of your hotel.

Laura pauses at some point, and the two of you toss the napkins into the trash. She re-links your hands, then, and when she presses her mouth lights to yours, her lips taste like lamb and yogurt. In the soft streetlight, she looks striking, eyes bright.

“So,” Laura says, as you walk. “What about this dessert I was promised?”

You laugh—because Laura’s always eager for anything sugared, candied or both, and Athens has no short supply of those things. “Patience,” you pull her a little closer, fingers softly trailing against the inside of her forearm. “We’re almost there.”

Laura shudders against you, but nods. “R-Right, well…lead on.”

Eventually, you turn onto the street with your hotel, and spot exactly what you’ve been waiting for. There’s an old, worn truck parked at the corner—not exactly luxurious, but yours for the evening.

“A humble chariot,” you say, nudging Laura, until she spots it. “Care for a ride?”

Laura’s brow scrunches, and she tilts her head at you, suspicion in her eyes. “Where’d you get a car, Carm?”

“One of the guys at the hotel,” you say, flashing back to the bellhop’s eager, wanting stare—he’d been easy to sucker into the deal, all you’d needed was to flirt a little and give him bedroom eyes, and he’d been putty. “I’m borrowing it for the night. Don’t ask.”

She gives you a wry look. “I think I have a few ideas how, but I want to know _why_ we need it?”

“It’s a surprise,” you answer, simple, tugging her towards it, unlocking the doors with the key fob. “Come on, get in. I’ve got something to show you.”

Laura squints uncertainly at you, but follows like a rowboat after a barge, climbing into the passenger side while you slip behind the wheel. The inside of the truck is just as worn as the outside, dated but well-loved, but it doesn’t smell and it isn’t gross—so, acceptable, if not entirely glamorous.

She tries to prod and probe you with questions—she’s a journalist through and through—but you settle for non-answers and hand waving. You drive slowly out of the city limits, into less populated streets, until there’s nothing but open spaces and plains rolling out around you.

“Almost there,” you tell her, after almost ten minutes of quiet driving—she’s leaning against the window, watching the world roll by.

Laura turns away, then, looks at you. “Where are we?”

In answer, you pull off the main road, into a tiny little dirt trail. “Somewhere special.”

It had taken a fit of inspiration and googling to find somewhere suitable for what you have planned.

“Is it time to woo me?”

You smirk at her. “I’ve already wooed the hell out of you, creampuff, and you know it. This is just a formality,” you say, setting the car into park. “Now c’mon.”

By the time Laura’s climbed out the door, you’ve slipped around to her side. You open the door behind her with a wink, and reach beneath her seat, fishing a large paper tote from beneath the seat.

Laura’s eyes flicker around as she steps out into the darkness of the night, absent of any street lights or buildings. You can see the nervousness on her face. “Is this a creepy, murder-your-girlfriend-in-a-dark-field sort of event? Because I’m not dressed for Athens Chainsaw Massacre.”

You shake roll your eyes. “Please, if I wanted to murder you, I would have just let you eat the nine souvlakis and watched your arteries clog,” you declare, reaching into a bag to pull out a flashlight. “Now c’mon, stop stalling.”

Laura tucks herself into your side, as you flick the light on. “You know, stuff like this is probably why LaF thought you were a vampire, out to suck my blood, for _months_ ,” she says, as you lead her through a small gate, onto an uphill trail.

“LaF is crazy,” you snort. “And their sense of reality is dubious at best.”

“Dubious, like your morals?” she asks. “Or the reasoning behind why I’m climbing up a hill in the dark, in a foreign country, with no idea _where_ I am?”

You glare at her, then. “Dubious, like whether you’ll be _walking_ back to Athens.”

“Right, shutting up now,” she declares.

It doesn’t take long for you to make it to the top of the hill, and walk through another fence and a couple of trees. Once you do, though, you hear Laura’s breath catch, and you’re sure that the sound you make, low, is one of agreement.

Wow. The internet was right, who knew.

“Carm, it’s— _wow_.”

Unfurling before you in the distance, in all its lights and glory, is the city of Athens.

High above that, so clear you can trace the constellations, the stars _blaze_.

“Trust me now?”

Laura looks at you then, and you’d swear you can see the starlight reflect in her eyes. “I _always_ trust you,” she says, nudging your side. “This is perfect.”

You smile, then, pulling her forward by the wrist. “Let’s sit down.”

The tote bag in your arms is equipped with everything you need, and you pull a picnic blanket out and spread it across the grass. You sit down, patting for Laura to join you. When she does, you pull out a sleeping bag, wrapping the two of you together, shoulder to shoulder.

“I love the stars,” you say, holding her hand in yours; it’s warm, soft, an anchor in the cold of night, in the wide expanses beneath the stars, where you feel open and exposed. “I used to love learning the constellations and the stories as a child. Mattie taught me what she could, and I read many books.”

Laura doesn’t look at you, eyes drawn to the city, but you know she’s listening.

“I always felt comforted, looking up at them,” you continue, a small, secret part of yourself laid bare in the tremoring in your voice. “Like, no matter how much people wanted, how big you were supposed to be, so strong—we’re all so small, quiet, trivial, beneath the stars. You could be anybody, it didn’t matter.”

“Do you still feel like that now?”

You sense it, the gentle question in her words.

“They’re comforting,” you say, after a lengthy pause, squeezing her hand tight. “But for a different reason now. Now, they don’t make me feel smaller, or trivial, or like any other girl. I feel…like myself, whatever that means, and it’s comfortable. I don’t need escapism, not anymore.”

“You’re my girlfriend, my best friend, my favorite person in the world,” Laura says, leaning her head against your side. “No matter what people say, or how the stars make you feel—you’re important, and you’re special, because I love you. You’re special to _me_.”

It’s nice to hear it, free of expectation, of connotations. You can trust Laura’s words, trust her intentions, because she _does_ love you. “And you’re special to me,” you say, tucking her head under your chin, holding her close. “That’s why I brought you here. The stars are special to me, and I wanted to share them with you.”

“They’re beautiful,” Laura says, but she’s tilted her head up, is looking at you instead.

You smile down at her. “They are.”

After a long, quiet moment, Laura finally breaks the silence. “So, about that plan of yours…”

It takes you a moment to catch on, but when you do, you roll your eyes. “The wooing: part three,” you say, pulling a box from the bag—you open it, and reveal cupcakes, a half-dozen of them, blue and silver frosting, with constellations drawn on the top. “Dessert—a Laura special.”

Laura smiles at you, stretching out across your lap and taking a cupcake. “You’re a woman after my heart!”

“I already own it,” you nudge her belly, but don’t shepherd her out of your lap; it’s nice, with her head tucked against your legs, even if the blanket being dragged down has left your arms cold. “But thanks for catching up.”

As you sit under the stars, tangled together, eating cupcakes (Laura’s got frosting all over her mouth, and it’s adorable—until she tries to kiss you, and just smears it against your lips), you realize again just how much you love her—you want her, forever, always.

And, god, there’s suddenly a question burning a hole in the back of your mind—

“Laura…”

You squeeze your cupcake a little too hard, and Laura squeaks as it crumbles, slopping sideways onto her forehead.

You stare mutely at her, heart in your throat.

“I—”

Laura blinks slowly up at you, sputtering, a threat in her eyes. “Carmilla Karnstein!”

That evening, when you return the keys to the bellhop outside of the motel, you’re very careful to avoid his eyes—you’re _not_ blushing, but your cheek is still sticky from the cupcake Laura had smashed into your face, and you ignore the way his eyes settle on the constellation symbol transferred onto your cheek (it hadn’t come off, much to Laura’s laughter, no matter how hard you’d rubbed it).

 

It's well after midnight, as Laura sleeps, that you step out onto the balcony, phone in your hand—it’s late, certainly too much so, but you know she’ll pick up whatever the time.

You swallow, tight, and ring the number.

It rings, once, twice—and then picks up.

 _“Darling_ ,” Mattie says, surprise in her voice. _“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until well after the gallivanting was over, hm? Fifteen days left and counting, sis.”_

You take a deep, shuddering breath. “I need your help with something.”

* * *

You spend days darting around the landlocked parts of Europe; in Podgorica, Bucharest, Budapest, Prague—chasing the edges of Eastern Europe, skirting around the outskirts of Austria, barely spending more than a day in each place. It’s a frantic, crazy pace, falling asleep in different hotels in different countries every night; a new language, new sights, every day.

(Laura spends much of that time snapping photos and videos, uploading them to Instagram and Facebook like she’s going to lose them otherwise—but you can’t help but smile, as annoying as it is, because these are real, palpable memories, shown for family and friends to see.)

(You take a photo of her, eyes wide and mouth half-open, her palm resting on the Lennon Wall in Prague—there’s something magical her face, and you upload it to your own, rarely used, Instagram without a second thought.)

After that, you spend a day in Warsaw, shopping and exploring the parks, before jumping in to start your Nordic adventure—hopping frantically through Sweden, Norway, Finland, and then finishing in Denmark.

(Your favorite memory from that time is Laura—half-asleep, head tucked into your shoulder, nose cold—cuddling with you beneath the warm, fur blankets of the Ice Hotel in Jukkasjärvi, telling you that she wished the trip “would never end”.)

(You look at her sleeping face and think, _forever doesn’t have to end with this trip_.)

(God, you’ll never love anyone the way you love her.)

After that, it’s on to Berlin—it’s quieter, more somber, at times, as you stand before the Berlin Wall Memorial and Checkpoint Charlie, years of dark, sad history at your back; but there’s also bright, wonderful moments, like walking through the Grunewald Forest at midday, with sandwiches in hand, taking in the gentle whisper of nature after all the time spent in crazy cities clogged with tourists.

All the terrible things that happened in Germany, all of the history, but it’s still a beautiful city.

(You’re glad you have Laura to share it with.)

* * *

_Amsterdam, Netherlands_

Amsterdam is the penultimate destination, because _of course_ it is—there’s no Europe without its most controversial, infamous city.

In your time spent there, although you have no intention of sampling its _finer_ luxuries, Laura seems to be convinced _everything_ is dangerous in Amsterdam (you suspect Laura’s father sent her off with a three-point lecture and powerpoint, when he’d phoned last).

Even when you go to dinner, Laura eyes every item on the menu like it’s loaded with opium, wary. And you let her stew, for a while, before you roll your eyes and order for both of you—pasta for lunch, just because, and then brownies for dessert ( _“no, cupcake, they’re not those kinds of brownies,” you reassure her)._

When the two of you step into the Sex Museum, you flash back to her face in the Eros Museum in Rome—because the moment Laura catches sight of the enormous penis sculptures, she turns the color of a tomato, face torn between horror and intrigue, and you can’t restraint your cackling.

(It only gets worse—and much more _interesting_ —when you hit the gift shop; because it’s not just souvenirs they’re selling, and when you prowl through the racks, Laura loses all capacity to speak entirely.)

After that, you go somewhere a little more family-friendly.

The Van Gogh Museum is home to the world’s largest collection of Vincent van Gogh’s works, and although Laura’s interest in art history is lesser, she listens attentively as you spew stories about his life and his works.

After that, you go to the Rijksmuseum, Bloemenmarkt, Hortus Botanicus, and all manner of other galleries, museums and gardens—because, for all it’s a city of pleasure and leisure, Amsterdam has an enormous amount of culture, and you barely have time to scratch the surface in the three days you spend there.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way Laura laughs—cackling, loud and unrepentant—when you tell her, flatly, standing in the halls of Madame Tussauds, that the Kim Kardashian wax figure looks, “about as plastic as the real thing.”

Of course, she hits your arm and lectures you about “beauty standards” and how “women shouldn’t drag other women down,” but it’s worth it for that laugh.

* * *

_London, United Kingdom_

The last days of your trip finds you both in London, the final stop on the road.

Laura’s eyes are brighter, here, standing in the busy streets, than they’ve ever been—as her gaze alights on traditional building facades, ancient phone boxes, and the tower of Big Ben in the distance.

“This,” she breathes, “is _amazing_.”

You roll your eyes. “So you’ve said, about fifteen times, might I add.”

“Because it is!”

“And what about Paris? Rome? Oslo?” you ask, just to see her pout. “I didn’t see that slack-jawed look then, cupcake.”

“It’s different, because it’s _London_ ,” she says, pointed, like that’s her entire argument—and you know it is. “It’s magical, Carm. I mean, it’s so _different_ in real life than Doctor Who made it seem, and it’s a lot different to all the period-dramas, obviously, but—it’s _London_.”

“Of course, I should have known,” you shake your head, smirking, “I take you all over Europe, and all you really want to see are phone boxes and construction workers.”

Laura’s eyes flit, just for a second, towards the workers slouched across the other side of the road, smoking and taking a break. Then she rolls her eyes. “I’d be happy anywhere, as long as you’re here,” she says, smiling softly. “And I loved Paris, and Athens, and Rome, and all the other places you’ve taken me—but this is _special_ , like a childhood dream come true _.”_

You look at her, and the sappy, secret part of your whispers— _yeah, you are_. “Well, then,” you say, sidling closer, slipping your fingers through hers. “Let’s go explore this ‘magical’ land. I’m sure, by the time we make it back to the hotel, I’ll have to hire a moving crew to carry all the souvenirs you’re going to buy.”

Laura’s suitcase, and yours, has been filled to the brim with all the things you’ve both acquired on the trip (more her stuff than yours, of course). But, she’d finally bitten the bullet in Stockholm and bought a second suitcase, and she’s been eagerly slipping off into touristy shops everywhere you go, filling it like she’s going to bring a tacky, late Christmas to everyone back in Austria.

 

“Green looks good on you,” Laura says, later that afternoon, straightening the Slytherin scarf you’ve reluctantly allowed her to plaster on you. She grins, then, and flaps her own yellow-black striped scarf. “Of course, yellow is more my color.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, you’re the full spectrum of nerd, cupcake. Trust me, I know.”

She huffs. “And _proud_ of it!”

“Unfortunately for me,” you say, smirking. “Now then, where were we?”

Laura’s face brightens, overjoyed, and there’s a childish edge to it—the excitement of a girl who’s grown up on the stories that the tour you’re going on is derived from. It’s not your typical scene, but Laura’s a card-carrying Harry Potter nerd, and the Warner Bros. Studio Tour was right up her alley—after all the museums and art galleries you’ve dragged her to, you can suffer through an afternoon of her Harry Potter-induced hysteria.

“Right! The butterbeer,” Laura chirps, attention shifting back to the new arrival at your table.

You know what it is, because even though you’ve never read the books—which Laura’s still upset about ( _“they’re literary masterpieces and, like, the essential childhood novel!” “didn’t have much of a childhood, cupcake.”)—_ you have been subjected to many hours of Harry Potter-related rants, and forced attendance to movie marathons.

“How very appealing,” you say dryly, looking down at the glasses that have been set in front of you—a honey-colored liquid, that smells too sweet to you. It looks like it’ll rot your teeth on contact. “Not the sort of beer I’d prefer, creampuff. Seems more up your alley.”

Laura, the very essence of all things sweet and sugary, lets out an appreciative hum as she sips hers. “Wow! Carm, try some!” her eyes light up. “Holy Hogwarts, that’s good!”

But because you’re a good girlfriend, and indulge Laura in all of her whims, you allow her to forcibly drag your hand to the handle of your tankard. “Alright, alright,” you relent, taking a tentative sip. It tastes like shortbread and butterscotch—not entirely surprising, from the smell, but also not very pleasant.

“That,” you declare, nose scrunching, “is _foul_.”

She looks crestfallen. “It’s not that bad! How can you not like it! What, are you tastebuds hardwired to only accept wine and sarcasm?”

“You’re the sweetest thing I can handle, honey,” you say, smirking. “Besides, you’ve got more than enough sweetness for both of us. I enjoy life without the sugar high.”

Laura eyes your glass, eyes glittering, pleading.

Shaking your head, you slide it over to her. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Like I was going to put anymore of _that_ in my body,” you scoff. “Go ahead, enjoy the sugar high.”

And she does, chattering excitedly in your ear, all the way back to central London.

(She's annoying, but you love her.)

(God, you're a lovesick fool.)

 

"I'm glad we did this," Laura says when you wrap your arms around her, lacing your fingers over her stomach. "This whole thing's been perfect."

You tuck your head into the crook of her shoulder, looking out at the sprawling city skyline before you. "Yeah?" you say, nosing softly at her neck—you can smell her perfume, that sweet, flowery scent that you'll never tire of. "Everything? Even that night we got trashed in Zürich, and I had to hold your hair back while you threw up on the plane to Rome? Or the time you almost got us mugged in Budapest?"

Laura smacks your hand, scoffing. "Okay, that was  _not_ my fault! How was I supposed to know that she wasn't a legitimate street performer?"

"It was pretty obvious, cupcake. I'm just glad I dragged you away  _before_ she suckered you out of anymore cash," Laura's so kind and sweet, you're certain that if it wasn't for your eternally-cynical eyes on her back, she'd have been robbed, stabbed and gutted in her first week outside of Styria. "It's been a good trip."

"Great," she says, leaning back into you. "Amazing. Fantastic. I'm sad it's almost over."

You're riding the London Eye, and it's almost at its apex; everything looks so small, so far away, from up here.

"So am I," you confess, looking towards Westminster and Big Ben—explored on the first day, which seems so long ago, here, on the final one. "Back home, to normal lives and normal jobs? It's going to suck."

"I wish we could do this forever," Laura sighs. "Just—keep exploring, you know?"

You kiss the side of her head, hum against her skin. "I've always wanted to see America."

"I've been a couple of times, with Dad," Laura's fingers tap thoughtfully over yours. "There's so much of it, though. I think you could explore for a hundred years and still never see everything."

You smile, looking out at the horizon, like you'll be able to see all of Europe beyond the skyline—all the places you've visited, and all the ones you haven't. "Sounds familiar."

Laura turns in your arms then, head tilted up so she can look you in the eyes, her arms wrapping around your neck. "You're the best tour guide I've ever had," she says, nose nudging yours. "There's nobody else I'd have wanted to do this with."

"Like there's anybody else. I'm pretty sure LaFontaine's on some sort of no-fly list," you tease. "And Perry's too high strung. She'd spend most of her time re-cleaning the hotel rooms because they 'did it wrong'."

When Laura scowls at you, you know she's conceded the—very valid—point. "Still, I don't want anyone else. I'm glad it was you."

"So am I," your fingers wrap tight at her back, squeezing her close. "I'm glad we could do this. After everything that happened—it was a long few months, and I didn't think we'd ever get here."

"Neither did I," Laura says, soft, against you. "But, I'm almost glad it did happen. Otherwise, I don't think we would ever have gotten here. I was so busy with work, I don't think I'd ever have taken a break, I'd just have kept on chasing new leads, new investigations—you know me."

Although the weight of her injury, almost eight months ago now, still lingers in moments—when you spot the scar on her leg, from the bone breaking through, or when loud noises take Laura by surprise and she can't hide the shaking in her hands—you've worked for a long time to recover from it. You needed this, this month to be  _Carmilla and Laura_ , away from work and responsibility and everything else that commands your lives. And you're hesitant to want to go back; to you working nights, and Laura working days, in the office space the Independent's borrowing from Mattie now that she's on the move again. You want this, spend all night and day, with Laura.

You want Laura—always, forever, for as long as you both shall live.

"God, I want this to last forever," you murmur against her skin.

Laura's fingers thread through your hair, and you hear her chuckle against you. "Me too," she sighs. "But we have to go back eventually, right?"

"We could just say 'screw it'," you declare. "Carry on to America, or Australia, or even  _Africa_ , if that's what you want—just go, and never look back. No more bar, no more work, just the two of us, mapping out the world. It doesn't sound like such a bad idea, if you ask me."

Her eyes flutter. "It'd be nice," but then they open again, look up, and you spot the resignation in her eyes. "But our friends, our house, our jobs, our lives—they're all in Austria."

"All roads lead to Austria," you murmur, lips brushing hers. "We'd come back, eventually—maybe next year."

Laura laughs, pushes you slightly away. "Tempting, but I need to go back to work, Carm."

"Of course," you sigh. "The merry band of idiots have probably already burned the building down without you."

"They're not that bad," Laura scolds. "We'd have heard from Mattie by now if LaF decided to experiment with fire again, I'm sure."

Your breath hitches a little at your sister's name—imperceptible, barely there. "Very true," you allow. "Mattie would have probably sicced her squad of private commandos on us by now, if the dimwits somehow wrecked the place. She was  _very_ clear that we'd be dealing with the insurance, if there was any other incidents."

"More like  _I_ would be dealing with it," Laura rolls her eyes. "I still don't see how she managed to draw up a  _one-hundred_ page contract—your sister is crazy."

"Also very true," you declare. "But she's prepared for every eventuality."

Laura laughs, and the two of you fall into silence for a long, unguarded moment. You're on the other side of the revolution now, and beginning to dip slowly back beneath the skyline, the crimson glow of sunset starting to wash out the colors of the buildings.

"Any regrets?"

You freeze, staring down at Laura for a moment—there's a thread of something in her voice, something you can't place, worn and ancient.

Neither of you have spoken at great length about the accident, not since the fight you'd had in her hospital room in those first few days, not since she'd finally gotten her cast removed and the all clear to carry on with her regular life. And you've never, not once, spoken about what you'd said to her over the phone that night, or of Mattie's constant teasing, or Kirsch and Danny's inquiries. And Laura's never brought it up. 

You're both locked in stasis, dancing around the subject—and you think back to that night in Athens, the words you'd almost spoken, the things that had almost spilled out, and…

You want to marry her, but you're worried—what if she says no?

That, you think, is probably your biggest regret.

"Mm," you reply, deceptively light, "letting you get that photo of me in the Slytherin scarf."

Laura looks up at you, eyes shaded with something you can't read, and smiles. "It was a good photo."

"It'd be better if you hadn't sent it to  _everyone_ we know."

"Sorry, not sorry," she smiles. "It was a  _great_ photo."

As the London Eye slowly completes its rotation, and the skyline disappears, you think about the sunset coming, setting on the final day of your vacation. 

You think about what awaits you at home, in Styria.

When the two of you tumble into that night, it's with excitement and anxiety growing like monsters beneath your chest—you know the old adage, that the only one that grows is the one you feed; but you've never  _not_ been able to fix your mind on Laura, on what she does, what she is, what she means, and your head races just as fast as your heart.

Your final night, curled in a bed with Laura in London, you don't think you sleep a wink.

 

* * *

_Styria, Austria_

 This time, it’s Danny who picks you up from the airport—the royal treatment, because you get to ride in the back of her cruiser like a criminal, while Laura sits up front, recounting your travels at a million miles a minute.

“I’m telling you, it’s perfectly justifiable to have pasta for every meal! ‘When in Rome,’ right?”

Danny laughs like Laura’s told the best joke she’s ever heard, hearty and bright and you  _hate_ her—you’ve never felt guilty about that time you hit her, and now you almost wish you’d done it  _twice_. “I’m surprised,” Danny flicks Laura a lingering smile— _inappropriate_ , you think, “I’ve heard about your eating habits, Laura. We all thought you’d be having wine and dessert for every meal.”

“She tried,” you say, catching Laura’s eyes in the mirror. “But, fortunately for all of us, there’s not much she can do when the order comes out ‘wrong’, and she gets a plate full of vegetables.”

Laura glares at you. “You said that they made a mistake!”

“I lied,” you reply, smirking. “Maybe someone should have learned more Italian than ‘si’ and ‘ciao’, hm? Maybe then you can order for yourself next time.”

“See if I go anywhere with you next time,” Laura sticks her tongue out at you, then turns back to grin at Danny, mischief in her eyes. "I also had some  _great_ pizza."

This time, you very deliberately give Laura a thumbs-up—wiggling it through the grated partition. “Shall we take a detour? I hear the _lion’s den_ is very comfortable this time of year.”

Laura grins, unrepentantly. “So anyway, then went to the Baths of Caracalla—which, side note, my report was _totally_ accurate about—”

Rolling your eyes, you tune Laura’s babbling out.

You were on the trip with her, you already had to listen to her theorizing about how Roman aqueducts and bathhouses inspired a revolution and formed the basis of today’s aquatic centers—you don’t need to sit through that class again any time soon.

Instead, you turn your eyes out the window, watching familiar streets roll by.

It’s strange to be back in Austria again, after so long spent everywhere _but_ here. But, despite how reluctant you’d both been to end the vacation, you can’t deny it’s nice to be back on home soil. Nowhere is as comfortable as home is, not even a five-star hotel in Paris.

Your phone chimes in your hand, and you glance down.

_Mattie: It’s done._

The dual monsters claw at your chest again, and you take a deep breath, and hope it doesn’t sound too shuddery. When you type a reply—a simple: _Thank you, Mattie_ —you realize your hands are shaking.

_Mattie: Don’t mess it up._

You don’t even deign that with a reply.

Mattie must sense the things you don’t say, in your silence, but your phone chimes once again, another text coming in.

_Mattie: She’ll say yes, you know. She’s just waiting for you to ask._

It’s like a balm to your frantic, frenzied state, the tremors of anxiety snaking beneath your skin.

You and Laura have been together almost three years now. You love each other. She _knows_ how you feel. You think you know how she feels. It’s just the words that must be said, going unacknowledged between the two of you for so long; it’s created an awkward void where neither one of you has spoken.

Soon enough, your street comes into view, and Danny’s parking the cruiser outside of your apartment—the ride, so long, suddenly feeling like nowhere near long enough.

“Welcome home,” Danny smiles, climbing out—she’s off duty, but between the cruiser and the bulky police vest, you feel somewhat like a criminal when she opens your door (kiddie lock, unfortunately, is always on in police cars).

“Thanks for the ride, Clifford,” you say, stepping out of the car.

Danny’s mouth tightens, and she squints her eyes at you—not exactly angry, but irritable. It baffles you how she’s still somehow in your life, probably because her and Kirsch are (probably, presumably, although they never say as much) a thing, and you can’t get rid of him, and Laura likes Danny too much to kick her to the curb.

“You’re welcome,” Danny moves to the trunk, unlocking it and extracting the million pieces of luggage—you take a small, vindictive moment of joy watching her struggle with Laura’s bag full of party favors, the suitcase full of presents for her friends. “You definitely don’t travel light, huh?”

Appearing at Danny’s side, Laura rolls some of the bags up onto the curb, grinning. “I return bearing gifts,” she says, tapping the side of the bag. “I’ve got something for everyone. Once I figure out where everything is, and who gets what, I’ll hand them out.”

You step up, taking the last few bags from Danny. “Good luck, sweetheart,” you reply, cracking a smile at her. “You’ll be taking stock for days.”

Danny tilts her head. “LaF and Perry are throwing a welcome back party on Saturday, if you hadn’t heard.”

Laura brightens. “Oh! We’ll be there!”

“It’d be a bad welcome home if you weren’t,” Danny smiles, slipping her thumbs into the straps of her vest. “Well, I should probably leave you guys alone, I’m sure you’re tired. Do you guys need help getting all that—” she gestures to the half-dozen bags between you, “—upstairs?”

Ordinarily, you’d be all for letting somebody else do your manual labor. But there’s something waiting upstairs, something Danny has no business being a part of, and you don’t need an  _audience_  for what you’re about to do.

Before Laura can open her mouth and invite Danny upstairs, like you know she will, you shake your head. “We’ve got this. Go, feed the puppy or whatever it is you do.”

It takes Danny a moment, but she glares. “Kirsch and I aren’t—”

“Don’t care,” you say, promptly turning towards your apartment and heading in, keys already in hand, half-dragging all your belongings with you. “Come on, cupcake. Race you.”

Laura hurries after you, waving at Danny. “Sorry, it’s been a long day! We’ll see you later, Danny!”

 

By the time the elevator doors open, and Laura spills out ahead of you, you’re pretty sure you’re about an inch away from hyperventilation. You’ve never been so nervous in your life—god, the things Laura brings out in you.

If she hadn’t been largely responsible for Mother’s prison stay, you think to yourself, Mother would probably have _hated_ Laura on principle alone, for just how weak she makes you.

(Mother never was good with precious, lovely things—she preferred beauty in the broken, the reforged.)

(You are nothing like your mother.)

“Carm?”

Laura’s further down the hall, standing at the door. She’s dropped her bags, and she’s staring warily at the door, brow furrowed. Because, you realize as you approach, it’s cracked open ever so slightly. There’s light spilling from inside, cutting a line in the relatively dark hallway.

“Did you leave it open when we left?”

You shake your head, mute.

Laura jumps when you drop the rest of the bags, setting them by the door.

“Open it,” you say, swallowing the shake in your voice—when she hesitates, you smile at her. “Trust me.”

That’s all she needs, the small reassurance. “O…kay?” she phrases it like a question, throwing you an odd look, but reaches out to put it open.

The sight steals away your breath—both of you.

The door swings open to reveal your apartment, a trail of rose petals dusting the wooden floor, tealight candles bordering the small hallway, until it opens into the main room.

Laura steps forward, slowly, like she doesn’t even know she’s moving.

You follow her, wordless, just as awed as she is.

When you step into the living room, it’s beautiful.

The ceiling lights are off, but there’s a dozen lit candles burning around the room. Strings of fairy lights, too, draped across doorways and ceiling fans, coiled around furniture and bookcases. It’s magical, you think, heart fluttering in your chest—Mattie did an excellent job, as always.

The sofas have been pushed aside, the coffee table moved. In their place, there’s a large tent made of white sheets, wooden poles, and tied together with twine and even more fairy lights. Beneath the canopy of the tent, your mattress has been relocated, piled high with blankets and pillows and, on a tray tucked at the foot of the nest, there’s a tray with champagne, chocolates and other things.

“Wow,” Laura breathes, eyes wide, head craning around. “Did someone break into our apartment and redecorate?”

You’d laugh, except you’re honestly a little taken aback as well—though you’d given Mattie instructions, ideas, she’d put everything together, and she’d done everything you’d envisioned and more.

“A final surprise, cupcake,” you say, and give yourself props for masking the tremble in your voice. You hold a hand out to her, offering. “May I?”

She blinks at you, but settles her hand in yours. “Sure.”

Swallowing down the pit of nerves coiling like angry snakes in your belly, you gently pull Laura forward. Her hand in yours like a chain keeping you grounded, you push away the things that claw at you, the anxieties, and drag her into the pop-up fort with you.

You’re both dressed for the comfort of travelling, loose shirts and jeans. It’s perfect though, for what you have in mind, and neither one of you are much for dressing up at home. She mirrors you when you kick your boots off and climb inside—careful not to disturb the tray of goodies.

“Sit with me,” you ask her, releasing her hand and sitting, cross-legged.

Laura settles in across from you, so close that your knees bump. She’s twisting the ends of her hair between her fingers—she looks nervous, confused, but positively _glowing_. “Carm…” she says, slowly, eyes darting around. “This is beautiful, but…why?”

There it is, the question.

“I think it’s time we had a talk, cutie,” you say, reaching out, gently unwinding her hands from her hair and tangling them with yours.

Her eyes grow wide. “Are you breaking up with me? Because this is very, very bad timing, and not to mention confusing, and you probably could have waited until we’ve both had a good night’s sleep, but—”

You bump her forehead with your joined hands, eyes bright. “I’m not breaking up with you, Laura,” you say, then bring her hand up to your mouth, kissing the skin softly. “I…that’s not what this is about.”

“Oh,” she breathes, slowly nods. “Okay, then what…?”

“It’s been almost three years now, since we met in the bar—you, the insufferable little journalist who wouldn’t leave me alone, no matter how much I tried to chase you off,” in retrospect, you’d been awful to her, but her stubbornness hadn’t let her leave, no matter how you’d tried. “I didn’t know, then, just how much you’d mean to me. Just how much I’d love you. You dug yourself into my life, into my heart, into my _bones_. Until I couldn’t imagine being away from you.”

“And then, the bomb happened. And I almost _lost_ you, Laura—for a moment there, when your heart stopped and I listened to you suffocate, I thought I _had_. And I—” your voice falters for a moment, thick with the memory of it, the ghosts that have never truly left you. “I realized, then, how much I needed you. How much I’ll always be there for you. And I don’t know how much you remember of that night, cupcake, but there were things I said then, things I _want_ , and…”

There’s understanding blossoming in her eyes, and you know she’s cottoned on to what you’re doing, what you’re referring to—the unspoken moments between you.

“Carmilla…” she whispers, eyes wide.

“I told you, that day—I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, I want forever, and I want it with you. That hasn’t changed,” you’re sure she can feel how clammy your hands are, the finest of tremors in them. “I love you, Laura Hollis. To the ends of the earth and back. Until eternity. And, I know marriage is just a formality, but…I want it, all the stupid, little, couple-y things, like a house, and kids, and a dog—and I want them with you.”

“Carm,” she breathes, and there are tears streaming down her face.

You gather her hands to your face, press a kiss to the top of them. “I love you, cupcake. And, if you’ll have me,” you let go, reach beneath the pillows beside you, and find the box just where you’d asked Mattie to leave it—you open it, letting Laura take it in. “I’d like to marry you.”

There’s no moment of silence, consideration, of anything.

Laura takes on look at the ring and tackles you, surging forward—you hear the champagne bottle tip, and the glasses clink together, but you don’t care, because there are words streaming from Laura’s mouth. “Yes, yes! Oh my god, Carm, yes! I do! I so do!” Laura’s cheeks are wet, but so are yours, and you’ll both look like mascara-caked pandas together— _forever_ , you think. “I love you, Carmilla Karnstein. And I want to marry you!”

With shaking fingers, you take the ring, slide it gently onto her finger. It fits perfectly, beautiful, shining in the moonlight like something indescribable. You swallow back the thick, tight knot of _everything_ in your throat. You look up at her, at the world of emotion written in her eyes.

“I love you, so much,” you say, low, joy bursting in your chest like a physical thing. “And I’m going to marry you.”

Laura’s smile is radiant. “Not if I marry you first,” she replies, cheesy. Then her smile slips into something bigger, wider, yet much more genuine. “Holy heck, we’re getting _married_! We’re _engaged_! Oh my god, Carm, this is huge! We need to tell everyone! How do we tell everyone? Do we do a tasteful Facebook announcement? Do we wait until the party? Do we—”

You press your lips to hers, slow and insistent, until her blabbering fades away, and she leans into you with a sigh.

“All I want to do,” you say, slowly pushing her back into the blankets, “is _you_.”

Laura looks up at you, eyes warm and bright, and smiles. “Well, you’ve got me. _Forever_.”

“Forever,” you echo, and seal your mouth over hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, I imagined their trip hopping like this (although most of the destinations were left out, to cut the chapter length): France, Switzerland, Italy, Greece, Hungary, Poland, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Netherlands, United Kingdom, and back home. 
> 
> Important note: I’ve never been to Europe (I live in New Zealand), so I have no idea what I’m talking about, aside from travel guides and googling, so please, suspend your disbelief. On another note, laugh it up—I extended the chapter count again! Again?! Yes, I did. But it was split it again, or cut the vacation/proposal part out. Don’t be mad, be rad. 
> 
> Also, apologies for the delay, but I'm over my sickness, and all my assignments/exams are now over! I am heading home for a week or so tomorrow, but I'll try to get the chapter out while I'm gone. Hopefully by the 19th of June—it's my 21st birthday, so I'll call it a present to myself (and the rest of you).


	6. live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never imagined you'd ever get your happily ever after. But, like all things, then along came Laura.

Of all the days you’ve lived, all the things you’ve seen, all the experiences you’ve had—you’d never have even dreamed that it would come down to this. That you’d be standing here, in an old, Victorian mansion on the lakefront, waiting to marry the girl of your dreams.

It must play on your face, because Mattie steps closer, presses her palms to your shoulders. “You look beautiful,” her eyes are soft, warm, and she looks happier than you think you’ve ever seen her—this day, for all it’s yours and Laura’s, is also very much your sister’s, too. “Truly.”

“Thank you, Mattie,” and those words mean more, here, than they ever have. “For everything.”

Your sister is a busy woman, running a multi-million dollar business is not a job for the faint hearted. But in six months, she's managed to pull together your wedding, and it's even more beautiful than you'd imagined.

"It's been my pleasure, kitten," Mattie says, smoothing down imaginary ruffles in your dress, and the smile she's wearing is positively radiant. "I have to admit, I never thought this day would come. I thought you'd spend your days sleeping your way through Styria, that you'd die an eternal spinster, and I'd have to shoo away a cohort of clingy lovers at your grave."

You roll your eyes. "I wasn't  _that_ bad."

"Oh, you were a monster, darling," Mattie tosses you a smirk. "I'd already prepared the chapter in my autobiography about your death at the hands of a jilted lover."

"Well, there's still the chance Laura will accidentally kill me with a well-intentioned breakfast."

Mattie's smirk only grows, her chuckle fond. "Ah, for such a talented girl, the culinary arts are not her finest pursuit."

It's not an exaggeration, either.

Laura is helpless in the kitchen for anything that does not involve boiling water, opening packages, or preparing a sandwich. You've seen her burn instant ramen. It's ridiculous. As much as you love her, you don't understand how she's survived her twenty-eight years.

Your eyes soften, mouth curling upwards. "I never thought I'd have someone as good as her, Mattie. She makes this, everything, worth it."

Mattie gently fixes a flyaway strand of hair. "You deserve the world, dearest. And that girl, she'd give it all to you and more," she smiles then, true, earnest. "I know we didn't get along at first, but…I'm glad that you found her. I've never seen you so happy."

There's a thread of something in Mattie's words, something strange. "Mattie…"

“I remember the day Maman brought you home, you know, this tiny, innocent little thing,” her lip quirks, soft, a little sad. “I’d never seen anything so small, so fragile, but so happy. I knew, then, that I wanted to keep seeing you happy, regardless of what Mother wanted. But I was too scared, for a long time, to defy her. I stood aside for so long, too long.”

Mattie shakes her head, and you’d swear, in the shifting light, that there’s wetness in her eyes. “And then you did it, always the little, rebellious girl. You left, and I was so thankful, so jealous. I thought, surely, it would make you happy. That I could handle Mother, keep you safe, keep her away from you. I thought, even if it was without me—you’d be happy, on your own path, free. That it was all I could hope for.”

“Then, along came Laura,” she rolls her eyes. “Insolent, stubborn, senseless girl that she is. Meddling in affairs that she had no business poking her nose in, daring to go after our mother. Daring to go after _you_."

Your lip quirks at the reminder. "I told her it was a bad idea."

"That girl is full of bad ideas," Mattie laughs briefly, but there's something darker in it. "But then she dragged you into it, roped you into helping her. And Mother, she was _furious_  when she found out, when that article hit. When she saw what Laura wrote, the things only you could've said…" Mattie pauses, hand clenching. "She had plans, you know. What happened to Laura? She would have made it look _tame_."

You'd known Mother's reprisal would have been terrible, a price too high to pay.

You'd warned Laura at the time that, if nobody believed her (and how could they, the actions of renowned 'philanthropist' Lilita Morgan being evil? perish the thought), then there would be nothing to stop Mother from coming after her. And you knew the extent of her reach, her corruption.

In the months that Laura had chased you, chased information on your mother and her business, you'd done your best to dissuade her. All the long nights Laura had spent at your apartment, or perched at the end of the bar, working on her article, you'd tried to talk her out of it. You'd told her your horror stories, the things you'd seen, to try and chase her off, to get her to abandon the witch hunt.

You hadn't fully understood Laura's stubborn, moronic commitment to doing the right thing then. You'd never _imagined_ she'd actually pull it all together, let alone dare publish it. 

The night the article went live, you'd tucked her to you with shaking hands, and asked her to run away with you—go somewhere beyond your mother's influence, where she couldn't reach. Just the two of you. Escape the inevitable reprisal, if only for a few months more.

You'd kissed her, held her close, and understood what _love_ and _fear_ truly were in the same sentence.

You'd been certain Mother would come for you, then. 

"But it never came."

Mattie slips you a smile, the hint of dark satisfaction in her eyes. "No, it didn't."

And it's very clear, suddenly, just _who_ stood in the way of your mother's final act of cruelty. "You," you say, realization widening your eyes. "Those hidden files, the 'source' that corroborated Laura's words. It was _you_."

In the light of morning, the reports had begun to roll in.

Laura's phone began to ring off the hook, as news stations—big stations, large ones: CNN, the BBC—all tried to contact her for an interview. 

Because Laura's report had been backed by an insider, someone with intimate knowledge of the company, anonymously leaking the _truth._ Every dirty deal, every skeleton, every body she'd buried: they'd told all. 

"There are many things our mother did wrong, so many times she hurt us both," Mattie's expression is sharp, edged—she's always disliked Mother, but she's never been so vocal, the sheer hate in her voice is absolute. "But the most grievous of all her errors was thinking that, should her moment come, I would stand behind her."

Abruptly, Mattie's face softens, and her hands find your forearms. "More than that, she was a fool to think that I would stand idly by and let her harm _you,_ " she shakes her head again. "There's a lot of things _I've_ done wrong, Carmilla. I should have stood up to Mother sooner, or taken her away from her as soon as I could. I shouldn't have let you deal with her alone. But that, taking that chance—that's the one good thing I've ever done for you."

“You did so much more than you know,” you reach out, catch her around the middle; hugs aren’t often exchanged between you, but they’re made more meaningful in the moments you do share them. "I love you, Mattie."

She pats the back of your head, careful not to mess with the veil, or the delicate, intricate braid and curls. Perry would kill her, undoubtedly, for undoing her hard work. And Mattie, herself, would never stand to see you a mess at the alter—not after the hours she’s put in to making everything perfect.

“So sentimental, kitten,” she retorts, but there’s no bite in it. “I love you too.”

She releases you slowly, almost reluctantly—and it's the most raw, affectionate that Mattie's ever been with you, that you've ever been with each other. But it's nice. The twelve years between you can feel like a lifetime, at times. But you feel closer to her now than you ever have.

"No waterworks, sweet thing," Mattie says, dabbing at your cheek to save your makeup—and you hadn't even known you were crying. "Today's your big day. There's no crying allowed."

You catch her hand, smiling, shaking away the tears. "Thank you, Mattie. Really."

"What are sisters for?"

 

"Miss Belmonde?"

The moment breaks the second Perry's voice, high and anxious, breaches the quiet of your dressing room.

Mattie steps away from you. "Lola, dear," she purrs. "I told you to call me Mattie."

"Well, um, Mattie," stepping through the door, Perry wrung her hands together, glancing between the two of you with something nervous on her face. "We have a, uh, _problem_."

Abruptly, all of the softness that had overtaken your sister is wiped away, and the CEO-slash-wedding-planner side of her comes out. She smiles, but there's nothing nice about it. "And what, pray tell, is the problem? We have—" Mattie pauses, glancing at her watch. "—fifteen minutes until showtime, Lola. Everything is in place. What could possibly have gone wrong?"

Perry looks about as white as a sheet. "Well, you see, the thing is…"

The door, half-shut, bangs open behind Perry.

"Laura's locked herself in her dressing room! She started crying, and threw everybody out, and now she won't open the door, and I think she might be hyperventilating? And—" LaFontaine freezes. "Oh, _hey._ Carmilla. Nice, uh, dress. _"_

You toss Mattie a fleeting look, already stepping forward.

She shakes her head.

"Go, save the day."

* * *

"Laura, honey," Sherman's standing at the door of Laura's dressing room (which is really just a repurposed bedroom on the top floor, opposite yours) when you arrive, awkwardly fiddling with his cufflinks. "Please, open the door!"

As you approach, you hear the faintest sounds from the other side.

"Honey, you need to calm down, and talk to me! Whatever it is, we can fix it!"

The sounds, you realize, are distinct: hysterical crying.

In bare feet and a wedding dress, you approach the door. "Mr. Hollis, I'll take care of it."

At the sound of your voice, he spins, eyes widening.

"Oh, Carmilla," he hesitates, eyeing the door for a long moment. All of his overprotective instincts, you figure, are screaming at him _not_ to leave his crying daughter alone. You almost expect him to put up a fight. But he nods, slowly. "I'll leave her to you, then."

"Thank you, Mr. Hollis."

He sets a hand on your shoulder and steps around you. "You look beautiful, by the way," he says, soft. "My wife…she would have loved to have been here. She would have loved you."

You've heard a million stories about Emily Hollis, the woman who died when Laura was ten years old. The one you know sang her lullabies, brought her hot chocolate on rainy nights, who used to comfort your fiancee through storms.

Laura doesn't speak about her often, but when she does, there's so much love in her tone. 

You wish you could have met her.

"I…" your voice falters. "Thank you."

Mr. Hollis smiles, squeezing your shoulder once and releasing. "Take care of her, Carmilla."

"Always."

 

You knock at the door.

"Go away, Dad," Laura's words are choked, sobbed.

Your heart melts. "Laura, it's me."

There's no response, not straight away.

"Open the door, sweetheart."

You're briefly considering whether or not there is any way you can pick a skeleton-key lock, when you hear a shuffle of movement on the other side. Abruptly, the door opens, barely a crack.

Laura looks at you through the sliver in the door, mascara streaked and face red. "You're not supposed to see me before the wedding. It's bad luck."

You place a palm on the door, gently push it, until Laura steps backwards. "What, our big, lesbian wedding isn't non-traditional enough? Sue me, I'm a rebel," you tease, moving inside and shutting the door gently behind you. "Now, tell me, what's this about? It's a bit late for cold feet."

Laura looks away, arms hugging herself tightly around the middle.

Even with tears in her eyes, mascara on her cheeks, she looks beautiful. Her hair is lightly curled, loose around her shoulders, and instead of a veil, there's a yellow flower crown on her head. In the dip of her collar, a familiar necklace sits, shining in the light. But the most stunning thing of all is her dress, tightly fitted at the waist, but flowing loosely to her feet.

(God, Laura's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.)

(How did you ever get so lucky?) 

"Hey, haven't you heard, cupcake?" You step closer, gently thumbing the tears away from her cheeks. "There's no tears allowed on our wedding day."

Laura swallows hard. "I just…I thought I could do this, Carm—put on her dress, and wear her necklace, and be _okay_ , but I'm not, I'm really _not_."

All of your breath leaves you in a rush. "Oh, Laura."

"As a kid, Mom and I used to play 'wedding'. I'd wear her veil and her necklace. She'd hum the song, and walk with me down the aisle. She'd always tell me that I'd make a beautiful bride, and she just _couldn't wait_ for my big day," Laura's face crumples again, voice thick. "And it's happening, Carm. I'm wearing her dress, and her necklace, and I'm getting _married,_ but—but she's not _here_."

"I know it hurts, sweetheart," you tuck her close to you, reaching up to cup her face, wipe away the rest of the tears before they can spill again. "I know you wanted her to be here, she's your _mom_. There's nothing anybody can do to fill the place she should be. But she's not completely gone, either. You carry her here—" you rap your knuckles against her forehead, "—and _here—_ " you press your hand over her heart. "And, if there's anything like an afterlife in this world, I'm sure she's looking down on you, so _proud_ of you—the sweet, beautiful, kind-hearted woman that you are, who's more stubborn than a mule and who can't cook to save her life."

Laura laughs, a choked, broken sound.

"If you want to call it off, if you want more time, just say so," you whisper, kissing her forehead. "I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, cutie. We can ride out of here together, right now. Screw the wedding. It's a formality, anyway. We don't need anything to prove how much we love each other."

"God," Laura looks up at you with red-rimmed eyes. "How are you so _perfect_  all the time?"

"I'm gifted," you offer, light, but you give her a serious look. "I mean it, Laura. Say the word, and we'll go."

She shakes her head, arms wrapping tight around your neck. "I love you _so_ much, Carmilla Karnstein."

"And I love you, Laura Hollis," so much, with all of your heart and soul. "And for what it's worth, I wish she was here too. I've never had much in the way of a mother, but…she sounds like she was an amazing woman. I wish I could have met her."

"She was. She really, really was," Laura whispers, voice rough. "I think she'd have loved you. She'd probably have told you to call her Mom. She'd have given you presents for your birthday, and knitted you ugly sweaters for Christmas, and constantly bugged you at holidays to eat more even when you're full. You would have hated it."

"She sounds fantastic, cupcake," you stroke her back. "If she's anything like you, I'd have loved her, I'm sure."

"I just…miss her."

"I know you do."

Laura takes a deep, shuddering breath. You feel the resolution in her frame, the way she sets her shoulders in determination. "Okay, enough crying," she shakes her head, stepping back from your hug. "It's wedding time."

You smile at her. "You ready for the big moment?"

"Give me fifteen more minutes to get myself together," Laura glances over her shoulder, catches sight of herself in the mirror with a wince. "And, like, another fifteen for Perry's lecture about ruining all of her hard work—then I'm all yours."

Leaning forward, you seal your lips over her own. "Take all the time in the world, we're about to have forever."

"Forever," Laura whispers. "Sounds grand."

* * *

Your wedding takes place outside, under the warm afternoon sun. 

With an arm in yours, and an arm in Laura's, Sherman leads the two of you down the path to the lake's edge. 

(You'd had no mother, no father, no family, besides Mattie, to see this day.)

(Still, the way Sherman takes both of you by the arm and calls you his "two, beautiful daughters" makes you realize you don't _need_ anyone else; just this, these people, the precious few.)

In the end, Mattie's extravagant tastes hadn't overtaken your day. There's nothing exorbitant, over the top. It's perfect just the way it is: a simple white carpet leading to the lakefront, where two rows of chairs on either side find your friends and family waiting. 

"This is happening," Laura's breathing hitches, as the music grows louder, as you approach. "Oh my god, this is actually happening, isn't it?"

Inwardly, you're freaking out just as much as she is—because _hello_ , you wore the title 'Miss Committment Issues' for so many years of your life, having sex and making out but never _dating_. For the longest time, you weren't sure you'd ever have a girlfriend, let alone a wedding.

But you are, and it's happening, and you're pretty sure your fingers are crushing the stems of your bouquet, you're holding it so tight.

"Breathe, girls," Sherman whispers, and his smile is so bright, so _proud_ , as you make your way to the alter—the simple, wooden arch, tangled in fairy lights. "This is the moment you wait your whole lives for."

Your hands are shaking, definitely.

Wordless, you curl your arm tighter around his, and point your face forward.

On Laura's side of the alter, LaFontaine—Friend of Honor—and Perry—Bridesmaid—smile as one.

On your side, Mattie stands alone, but she's smiling wide enough for two.

Your eyes pan the crowd, so many faces you don't recognize—Laura's family members, extended, from all over Canada, and an assorted medley of friends you don't know, or barely know. In the front, though, it's almost entirely filled with members of the Independent: J.P., Betty, Sarah-Jane, Elsie, Natasha, everybody who she works with is there.

Your pickings are a little slimmer, your co-workers from the bar, your boss. But, sitting right at the forefront of your side, are Kirsch, Danny, and a small assortment of firefighters and paramedics from that day, almost a year ago now. You'll never forget what they did, to make this day possible. But, you made good on the promise of a lifetime ago, and invited all of them.

By the time you make it through the field of eyes on you, to the alter, you manage to relax your death grip on the flowers. Your hands are still shaking, though, traitors that they are.

Sherman releases you both, tears in his eyes.

"I'm so proud of you, kiddo," you hear him whisper to Laura, as he hugs her. "And your mother, if she could see this day, she would be, too. Don't you ever doubt that."

Laura's lip wobbles, but she keeps her head high, hugs him fiercely back. "I love you, Dad."

"You too, baby girl."

Then he turns to you, and you're shocked when he throws his arms around your shoulders, pulls you in close to whisper in your ear. "You take good care of her, you hear me? Keep her happy, Carmilla. Just, look after each other, and—" his voice cracks. "Welcome to the family."

You don't even consciously process it, but you're hugging him tightly back. "I will, I promise," you whisper back. "Thank you, for raising such a bright, beautiful woman."

"Thank you for loving her," he replies, pulling slowly back. "Now go and marry the heck out of my daughter."

You smile at him. "Now that's a promise I intend to follow."

After a moment, you find yourself standing before the collection of friends, family and strangers. But you only have eyes for one person, Laura—with her shining smile and blazing eyes. You don't even look at the officiant.

The two of you hand your bouquets off to LaFontaine and Mattie, and link hands.

"Today is a celebration. A celebration of love, of friendship, of commitment, of _forever_. We're celebrating two wonderful, bright young women, deciding to spend the rest of their lives together, and sharing their love with _us."_

The officiant's words are distant to your ears, all you can think about is Laura's smile, her hand in yours, and how you are sure she can feel how sweaty yours are.

"No matter who we are, where we've come from, what we believe, there is one thing we all know to be true: love. And I don't think I've ever seen two people more in it," the words washed over you, warm, and you feel Laura's fingers tangle tighter with your own. "That's why you all are here today. To see two people, so in love and so happy, committing to that great, big forever."

You're overcome, suddenly, by the idea that Laura is _yours_ , that you're _hers—_ that you really, truly, are about to have your forever.

This is it, the beginning, the first day of your future together: not as girlfriends, but as wives, two halves of a whole, in sickness and in health.

You want it all, everything: the house, the dog, the _kids_ , whatever the future may bring, you want it all with Laura.

And you can have it.

"Carmilla, _Carm_ ," Laura looks at you like she can see a galaxy inside of you, all wide-eyed awe and reverence—and you were so caught up, you didn't even realize that the officiant had finished speaking. "Wow, there are so many things I want to say to you, so many words tangling in my brain, and I can't even—I could probably make an entire speech, we both know I babble too much when I get nervous and, whoa, I've never been more terrified in my life!"

You laugh, stroking your thumb over the back of her hand. "The good kind of terrified, I hope?"

"The _best_ kind. The kind I only feel around you—where my heart beats like crazy, and I can't think, or breath, or do _anything_ without butterflies in my stomach. Nobody's ever made me feel the way you do," Laura's eyes dart away from you, to the crowd, and back. "Even after three crazy, wonderful, mindblowing years, every time I see you it's like the entire world goes quiet, and all I can think is that I'm so _lucky_ to have somebody like you."

"My mother always said that you know you love someone when every time they say your name, your heart races. That every time they touch you, you never want to pull away. That, no matter what, you can't imagine a future without them," Laura's voice quivers, watery. "And I can't imagine my life without you. I don't want to. I want to grow old and gray with you, Carmilla Karnstein. I want to spend every day, from now until the end of time, with you. So, are you up for forever?"

Your expression matches hers. "Do you even have to ask? Of course."

Her eyes stare into yours for a long moment, silence passing between the two of you. 

It takes you a minute, then, to realize you're supposed to be speaking. It's your turn. 

"My first impression of Laura was: how good was your fake ID to get into my bar. Second impression: whoever let you in should _definitely_ be fired." Laughter erupts from the crowd, but you ignore it, staring earnestly into Laura's eyes. "You came into my life like Hurricane Hollis, a girl on a mission. You wouldn't leave me alone. You practically stalked me for a _month_. I thought you were so annoying, this intrepid little Lois Lane wannabe, who was going to get herself killed—probably by me, if you happened to 'pop up' one more time while I was grocery shopping."

Not even her makeup can hide Laura's blush, and you grin at her, wide and sappy.

"But, before I knew it, you'd grown on me. This tiny, insane reporter who wouldn't leave me alone. And I didn't _want_ you to. All the times you sat at the bar, telling me about your life or rambling about your favorite TV shows—those became the best part of my days, my _week,"_ your voice wavers slightly, the complex tangle of things you feel for her knotting in your throat. "And it came to me one night, out of nowhere. I was mixing drinks, and you were just sitting at the bar working, you weren't even talking to me, but—I took one look at you, and I just _knew_ that I loved you. And from there, it's like everything shifted."

"I've seen a lot of bad in this world, cupcake. Too much. And, for the longest time, I thought that it was all like that. I spent so much of my life jaded, angry, bitter. I thought that nothing changed, that people would always be awful," you smile wryly. "But then there was you, all sunshine and rainbows. My little optimist. I saw the world through your eyes. And I realized, sure, there _are_  a lot of bad things. But there's still so _much_ good in the world—people like you, fighting to do the good thing, the _right_ thing. Even if it puts you in danger, even if nobody appreciates it. There's nothing more beautiful than the way you _try._ You make me want to be better, to do more. You _inspire_ me, Laura."

You take a deep, shaky breath, pulling her slightly closer. "I'm so proud of who you are, of what you do. And, if you'll have me, I want to share it with you. I want our forever."

Laura nods, shaky, and there are tears in her eyes. "Yes, yes."

"Then, ladies, the rings?"

You'd thought it was hilarious, at the time, to assign the _puppy_ the task of ring bearer.

But when Kirsch lurches out of his seat, a wide, wobbly grin on his face, and passes each of you a velvet box, you're suddenly alarmingly _thankful_ for him. "Here you go, hotties," his voice is croaky, thick. "Two rings, coming right up."

"Thank you," Laura whispers, eyes only for you.

You wordlessly take the box, smiling back at her.

"This ring is a promise," Laura says, opening the box, extracting a golden band and beautiful diamond, and handing the empty box to Kirsch. "A promise to love you, to care for you, to be by your side—always and forever, no matter what. We're a pair now, Carm."

She takes your hand gently in hers, sliding the ring into place. "I love you."

You look down at it, simple and beautiful and _perfect._

"I love you too, Laura," you say, opening your own box. "And I want to make you the same promise. I want you to be my wife, cutie. I want everything. I want mornings, afternoons and nights with you—I want to wake up with you, and go to bed with you, every night for the rest of my life. I want to grow old together with you. I want it all."

"All of it?" Laura breathes.

You nod, sliding the ring onto her finger. "All of _you_ ," you confirm, heart in your throat.

The officiant smiles. "With that, I have one final question for you ladies. Do you, Laura Hollis, take Carmilla to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Laura beams. "With all my heart."

"And do you, Carmilla Karnstein, take Laura to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Your smile softens. "I'm all in, cutie."

"Then, with the power vested in me, I now pronounce you wives—you may _both_ kiss the bride."

You waste no time, tugging Laura forward and sealing your lips over hers.

Behind you, chaos breaks out—you hear yelling, screaming, applause—but you have no interest in any of it, all you can think, feel, taste, is _Laura_ , your _wife_. 

(She tastes like forever.)

(You can get used to that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after a delay (I'm back at my dad's, and only have my iPad, not my desktop to work on, so it's been much slower), here it is! The final chapter! I'd originally had so much more lined up (8k+ words have been edited out of this chapter, to potentially be posted as a side-story at some point), but in the end it didn't fit with what I wanted, so here's the (much shorter, revised) ending.
> 
> I'm both relieved it's over, and sad that it's finished. It hasn't even been a month, but this story crawled inside of me and made itself at home, refusing to leave me alone. It's so tempting to extend it and extend it, but I know the natural ending of a story when I see one, and it's finally come.
> 
> After a (long) break, I'm thinking about a potential prequel to this: telling the story of how Carm and Laura got together, and exploring the shady operations of Morgan Enterprises. Until then, though, there's a couple of other fics in the work, which you may see sometime soon, so keep an eye out.


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